Makes use of an, erm, interesting factoid I read in a gay men's health book.
Frodo appeared in the kitchen doorway at an unseasonably early hour for a hobbit of leisure, lured thither, as Sam had suspected he would be, by the scent of frying mushrooms. He paused at the threshold, the tip of his elegant nose twitching like a mouse’s when a morsel of cheese was nearby, and said reproachfully, “You are too cruel, beloved, I vow. I had intended to have a lie in this morning, and now look what you’ve done.” “Mornin’, love. Your tea’s ready,” Sam said with unimpaired good cheer, ignoring the accusation in favor of admiring Frodo’s delectably disheveled appearance—tumbled ebon curls and sleep-flushed cheeks that turned his eyes bluer than the rain-washed harebells in the garden.
Frodo's equally elegant eyebrows elevated. "Tea?" he said, and moved toward the table, where a steaming mug awaited him. “I take it all back, sweeting. You are, in truth, a wizard.”
“There ain’t no wizardry involved, not when mushrooms are cookin’ and you can smell ‘em,” Sam replied, grinning. He gave the frying pan a practiced shake to prevent the sizzling mushrooms from sticking. “I reckoned you’d be along any minute now.”
“Am I that sadly predictable, my love?” Frodo feigned a pout, and stretched, a long languid stretch, more cat than mouse now, and no garden variety tabby, but one of Queen Beruthiel’s famous hunting cats, sleek and only half-tamed.
The tease, Sam thought, as the loosely belted tie of Frodo’s deep crimson brocade dressing gown came undone, revealing fully what had barely been concealed. He knows right well what he’s doin’ to me.
The cooking of breakfast seemed suddenly less than urgent as earthier appetites took precedence. Sam removed the frying pan from the flames and set it on the counter; the mushrooms were as close to done as made no difference, and besides, they needed to cool before he could make the omelet he’d planned for Frodo’s breakfast.
Sam made no effort to tamp down the lustful anticipation that was swelling his cock, as he might have on another morning. But this morning rain was lashing at the windows and there’d be no work for him in the garden. Work of another kind, the most pleasurable kind, though…
“Predictable?” he repeated, and his voice was husky now. “You’re no more predictable than this rainstorm, Frodo.”
As if on cue, thunder rumbled. A few seconds later a brilliant flash illuminated the kitchen, and sparked a sensual glow in Frodo’s eyes that arced across the room and kindled a corresponding fire low in Sam’s belly. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and his senses swam, as if the air had turned to honeyed wine.
Frodo drew a chair from the table with slow deliberation and turned it around. Eyes locked with Sam’s, he shrugged out of his dressing gown, letting it fall so that it draped over the chair in a crimson waterfall. Then he sank down into the chair, facing Sam. He hooked one knee over a chair arm, and let the other splay to the side in wanton invitation. His cock, like Sam’s, was waking to fullness, darkening visibly from blush pink to rose red. Against the crimson silk, his milk-white skin glowed and his eyes burned as intensely blue as the flame at the heart of the cook-fire.
With mouth gone dry, Sam watched as Frodo trailed a hand across his chest, circling a pale pink nipple with his forefinger until it tightened to a hard bud, then downward, following the downy trail to the tangled nest of mahogany brown curls at its end. His cock stood stiffly out now, curving upward so that the tip pointed to the soft swell of his belly. He encircled it with his fingers, squeezed, and his head fell back on a soft exhale of pleasure.
Sam moved then, for though watching Frodo pleasure himself was one of his chiefest delights, this morning such pleasure was his to bestow.
“Frodo, stop,” he commanded, crossing the short distance into two swift strides and dropping to his knees on the crimson brocade. Frodo’s head snapped up as Sam took hold of his wrist, gently but firmly. “’Tis mine,” he added sternly.
Obediently, Frodo relaxed his grip and allowed Sam to pull his hand away. His breaths were coming quickly between parted lips, and his eyes were wide with pleased anticipation. Sam knew that Frodo liked it well when he took the initiative, overcoming the instinctive deference that years of habit and training had instilled.
Sam grasped Frodo’s plump shaft beneath the head and tapped it firmly against his cheek, chuckling as Frodo let out a startled cry at this unexpected love play. Sam repeated the tap on his other cheek, sharper this time; a spray of sticky-warm fluid spattered his cheek and the side of his nose, and Frodo whimpered, “S-Sam.” His hands clutched the arms of the chair with a white-knuckled grip.
“I’d not want you thinkin’ I’m predictable,” Sam murmured with sly humour, and moved his hand down the silken length, rhythmically squeezing and releasing, ending by sliding his fingers around Frodo’s bollocks and massaging them.
“Y-You are anything b-but, beloved,” Frodo stuttered, splaying his leg even wider to give Sam better access.
Sam set the flat of his tongue at the base of Frodo’s cock, and licked upward in one sweeping motion. With the tip of his tongue and then his teeth, he teased the sensitive spot on the underside of the crown, listening with the most intense satisfaction to Frodo’s incoherent whimpering moans. There was no greater reward for Sam than to drive that oh-so-self-controlled, indolent gentlehobbit Frodo Baggins to mindless pleasure.
Moving his hand again, this time to hold Frodo’s shaft in position, Sam bent his head and took him into his mouth, loving how his lips had to stretch to encompass him, loving the warm salt-musk taste of the fluid that leaked from the slit and provided needed lubrication as he hollowed his cheeks and sucked, hollowed his cheeks and sucked, repeating the action until Frodo writhed on the slippery brocade and his fingers tangled painfully in Sam’s hair, and he gasped, “Deeper, Sam, take me deeper.”
At that, Sam tensed, and Frodo’s wet cock slipped from his mouth. This was a skill he had not yet quite mastered, and he wanted to, he wanted to so desperately, to give Frodo the same earth-shattering bliss that he gave to Sam when he took him deep and brought him to climax.
Frodo’s fingers gently tugged Sam’s head up. “Sweeting, I know what it is that you fear, but early morning is the very best time to try this. Your throat will be more relaxed and less likely to close up. So stop fretting and believe you can do it, hmm?” he coaxed with an encouraging smile.
Frodo’s mastery of the erotic arts was unparalleled (a matter of both gratitude and undeniable jealousy for Sam, who tried not to think of the numerous lovers in Frodo’s past), and if he said Sam could do it then do it Sam would, and prove his mettle at last.
“All right,” Sam said with determination, grasping Frodo’s shaft again and placing his lips around him.
“Then open wide, Samwise, I’m coming in,” Frodo said in a teasing voice, and before Sam could so much as think about tensing up, Frodo lifted his hips and pushed into Sam’s mouth, sliding smoothly inside and not stopping until he was in as far as he could go, and the tip of Sam’s snub nose was tickled by that nest of mahogany curls.
He’d done it, Sam exulted, and with no other outlet for his joy, hummed happily deep in his throat. Frodo moaned, “Oh yes, beloved, oh yes, do that again…”
So he did, and was rewarded by another ecstatic moan from Frodo, who withdrew his cock slightly and then thrust, and again Sam took him down easily, and he wondered why he had ever thought this impossible. His next pleased hum vibrated along Frodo’s cock with such potent effect that a spurt of welcome, lubricating warmth trickled down his throat.
“Oh Samwise, you…” Frodo gasped, holding Sam’s head still as he withdrew even further and thrust even harder this time, but whatever he’d been intending to say went forgotten as Sam, confident now, slid his hands beneath Frodo’s firm, rounded buttocks and grasped them firmly. In, out, faster, slower, he controlled the tempo and depth of Frodo’s thrusts, until Frodo was once again writhing mindlessly, consumed by the pleasure Sam was giving him; until, buried deep, he arched up and climaxed with a cry that drowned out the sound of the rain beating against the window-glass.
Sam didn’t release Frodo until he was limp and fully spent; only then did he sit back on his heels, licking his lips with a satisfied murmur, and feeling as proud as he ever had in his life—especially at the sight of Frodo, slumped against the chair-back as if his very bones had dissolved, and regarding Sam with a dazed, wondering expression on his face.
Sam climbed to his feet, ignoring the demand of his own erection pressing uncomfortably against the slightly-too-snug placket of his breeches. He’d taken more than sufficient pleasure from what had just passed, and required nothing else. Besides, there were fried mushrooms waiting and an omelet to cook. Frodo needed feeding up.
Smiling contentedly, Sam plucked the tea mug from the table and held it out to Frodo.
“Best drink up your tea afore it gets stone cold, love,” he advised with a cocky grin.
Frodo, that most eloquent of gentlehobbits, accepted it without a single word.