Warning: contains very much NSFW drawing at the end!
He ought to have guessed the use to which Frodo would put the honey he’d packed for a picnic in their special glade, hidden away deep in the woods.
My sweet, honey-gold Sam.
Sam could almost hear the murmured words as Frodo lifted the brown pottery jar from the blanket and weighed it in his hands, speculatively eyeing the lone word writ upon it: HONEY.
A tiny smile curled the corners of Frodo’s shapely lips as he nodded and set the jar to one side, along with a long-handled wooden spoon.
Oh, but Sam could read that smile. Innocent-seeming it was, the smile of a demure, proper gentlehobbit, until the tip of a damp pink tongue snaked out and wet the full lips into carnal ripeness. Images flooded Sam’s mind then, of last night in their large bed, and Frodo’s clever mouth stretched wide to encompass him while he in his turn pleasured Frodo as he poised on all fours, his purpling cock and taut sac suspended above Sam’s head.
His heart took off bucking and jolting like a pony with a burr under its saddlecloth, though he continued to empty the withy basket with slow, measured movements, as if he’d noticed nothing.
Frodo was seated cross-legged on the blue wool blanket they had spread over the grass full in the languid warmth of the summer sun. He patted it firmly, a gesture of demand, not invitation; he had such moods, Sam had discovered, when the slow build-up of tension he normally preferred yielded to an ineluctable imperiousness that was rarely on display but called to something deep inside Sam, at the very core of his being. He had, after all, been designed for a life of service, both by birth and by rearing, and to serve Frodo, especially in this area, was no hardship, but purest joy.
“To me, beloved,” Frodo said, and Sam abandoned both pretense and picnic basket, and knelt before him, hands splayed loosely on his thighs and head lowered in an attitude of obeisance: so might an apprentice kneel before his master. Already a noticeable erection swelled the brown velvet covering Frodo’s crotch; Sam trembled a little, aching to reach out and rub him into mindless, writhing pleasure with the heel of his hand, but certain that such love play was not what Frodo had planned for them.
“Undress,” Frodo commanded in a low voice, and a blue flame of desire, the intensity of which put to shame even those fires kindled in the forges of the Dwarves under the Iron Mountains, leapt to life in his eyes. Yet he remained quite still, waiting.
Wordlessly, Sam obeyed, first sliding down his braces, and then undoing his buttons and shrugging out of his shirt that he let fall carelessly behind him. The sun was hot as a lover’s kiss on his bare shoulders and back, and his nipples peaked to hard, aching nubs under the scorching heat of Frodo’s possessive gaze.
He stood, planting his feet well apart, and his hands went to the waistband of his breeches. He unfastened the now-bulging placket, which fell away to release his rapidly swelling cock, jutting from the tangle of dark-gold curls at the juncture of his quivering thighs. His breeches soon followed after his shirt, and Sam stood fully naked before Frodo, with his hands curled loosely at his sides and his head abased, awaiting further orders.
A soft breeze played over his bare skin like shadow-fingers, slipping into the moist cleft of his buttocks and caressing his lightly furred sac that dangled freely now between his spread thighs. Frodo sat still unmoving, allowing the breeze free rein to fondle and arouse, save that his eyes travelled slowly up and down the front of Sam’s body, lingering longest on the proud thrust of his turgid shaft, and they burned like a brand wherever they touched.
Sam’s own eyes, though lowered, were no less observant of what was in their line of sight. The ivory column of Frodo’s throat glistened with trickling beads of sweat; a tiny pool had gathered in the hollow at the base where a rapid pulse beat and gave the lie to his seeming calm. His linen shirt clung to his chest in damp patches, revealing a hint of puckered nipples. The curve of his fully aroused cock was plainly visible, moulded by the sweat-dampened velvet of his trousers; almost Sam thought he could make out each ridge and pulsing vein, and his mouth went dry with desire.
Then Frodo reached for the honey jar, and the pale fingers of one hand worked the cork stopper free and set it aside upside down on the blanket. He picked up the wooden spoon and rose slowly to his knees. Sam watched, mesmerised, as Frodo dipped the spoon into the honey and withdrew it, dripping gold. He turned the spoon nimbly around and around in his fingers, catching the ropy golden strands before they fell to the ground.
Sam’s hips gave an involuntary jerk, so certain was he of what Frodo planned to do with that honey: he could almost feel its sticky warmth spread across the head of his cock, and Frodo’s tongue licking it away before enveloping him in the silken heat of his mouth and suckling him, while his hands caressed Sam’s thighs and fondled his bollocks, before sliding into the shadowy cleft and plying the puckered open hidden there. But he also ought to have guessed that a lover as inventive as Frodo would never do something so expected. That tiny smile was curling Frodo’s lips again; he raised the spoon, and as if he were launching a dart at a board, gave a sudden lightning flick of his wrist. Sun-sparkled golden droplets flew at Sam, landing with a spatter on his chest, arms and belly.
A startled cry escaped him, and he whimpered at the sensation of the sticky, sun-warmed honey on his skin, so like to the hot spray of Frodo’s seed as he climaxed. It was arousing beyond all imagining. The honey’s sweet aroma, tinged with the lavender blossoms from which the bees had taken the nectar, filled his nostrils. Frodo dipped the spoon, raised it, and flicked his wrist a second time. And repeated the movement again, and yet once again. Honey oozed down Sam’s neck, his chest, arms, belly, thighs and calves; it dripped from his throbbing cock to puddle on the blanket, it glistened in the golden curls of his foot hair.
Frodo set aside the jar and spoon. “Now in truth are you my sweet, honey-gold Sam,” he said hoarsely. Reaching out, he stopped the slick slide of liquid gold over the swell of Sam’s belly with the side of his forefinger, scraped the honey away and stuck the sticky finger in his mouth, sucking it suggestively. All the while his eyes held Sam’s, the forge-flame in their depths blazing ever hotter.
Sam whimpered again, and his cock swelled even larger, and deepened to an angry red with arousal. “Frodo…” he said.
“Turn around,” ordered Frodo.
Once more Sam wordlessly obeyed, though to turn away from that fair flushed face and heated gaze was hard, cruel hard.
“Now sit, beloved.” Firm hands on Sam’s bare shoulders guided him down, until he was seated - not on the scratchy wool of the blanket, but on the plush damp velvet of Frodo’s trousers and the rigid shaft concealed there. Instinctively, Sam ground down against that hardness with his buttocks, wishing there were no barrier between them preventing Frodo’s erection from lodging where he wanted it to be. His insides involuntarily clenched with frustrated longing for that most intimate possession.
“No,” Frodo said, but his fingers had clenched, too, digging painfully into Sam’s upper arms, hard enough to leave bruises, and his breath hitched in his throat. “Sit still,” he hissed, and Sam forced himself to obey.
Frodo relaxed his convulsive grip and moved his hands, splaying them on Sam’s chest and belly. Then, with sweeping, sensuous strokes of his fingers, he spread the honey’s slick warmth. Softened by sun and skin the honey spread as smooth as butter over waffles hot from the griddle. At the same time, Frodo hunted out such honey-drops as were within reach of his tongue, and at these he lapped, murmuring his delight between tastes.
Languidly, he smeared honey around Sam’s right nipple then pinched it hard between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it to the sound of Sam’s helpless whimpers. His now honey-gilded left hand had a different goal in mind, heading southward to claim Sam’s aching shaft, taking it in an intimate grip just beneath the crown. His thumb worked droplets of honey in and around the slit, mixing it with the clear fluid now welling up and over.
Before this two-pronged assault, Sam had no defenses; he collapsed back against Frodo with a moan of surrender, his thighs falling open. The edges of the shell buttons of Frodo’s shirt bit into the tender skin of his back; the sensation wasn’t painful but intensely erotic. The awareness that he was entirely naked while Frodo was completely clothed only heightened the effect of Frodo’s demand for complete submission, as no doubt he’d known it would.
“Sam, my sweet… honey-gold… Sam,” Frodo said in his ear, and then his mouth fastened over a splatter of honey at the base of Sam’s neck; drawing the sticky-sweet skin into his mouth, he suckled it.
Sam cried out. His hands, braced behind him on Frodo’s thighs, scrabbled for purchase, twisting desperately into the bunched folds of velvet. His left heel dug into the blanket as he arched into Frodo’s hold, and his thighs spread wider. The heel of Frodo’s right foot had been braced against Sam’s muscular buttock. Now it slid inward, until it pressed up into the fur-lined cleft, and fit tightly against Sam’s opening. The delicious pressure there was almost more than Sam could bear.
His head fell back against Frodo’s shoulder, his eyes closed, and he gave himself over completely to Frodo’s mastery. The sun beat hot against his eyelids and his exposed front, but no hotter than the sun that seemed now to burn inside him, its golden rays travelling along every limb, reaching right to his fingertips. His very bones seemed to dissolve, liquefying like the honey on his skin.
Frodo stroked Sam’s cock with a rhythmic pull and twist, working it from root to tip, aided by the slick-sticky honey-fluid that now coated it. As the pull and twist motion grew faster and faster, his heel moved in counterpoint, rubbing repeatedly against the dusky puckered opening. Frodo’s moist breath, now redolent of honey, tickled Sam’s ear; his tongue traced the rim, then he drew the sensitive tip into his mouth and suckled, while his right thumb and forefinger continued to ply a budded nipple.
The fiery sun inside Sam contracted and concentrated, centering in his groin, where unbearable sensations were building. He bucked frantically into Frodo’s hold, kicking out with his foot like a fractious pony, catching the honey jar and tipping it over so that its golden richness spilled onto the blanket. Sam had no idea; wordless whimpers and moans poured from him like the honey from the jar as those unbearable sensations kept building, building, building, inside him…
“Frodo!” he cried out. Please.
“Now, beloved.” Frodo’s sharp teeth bit down hard into the fleshy spot at the juncture of Sam’s neck and shoulder and he gave Sam’s cock one final, fierce pull and twist. The unexpected sting of pleasure-pain sent Sam hurtling over the edge with a cry that rang like a trumpet’s call through the peaceful glade and startled the birds from the bushes in a whirl of flapping wings.
The sun inside Sam exploded into a million brilliant, blinding shards with the intensity of his orgasm, and his release was bliss beyond imagining, and protracted, as he came and came. Dimly, he could hear the patter of his seed on the blanket, before he finally slumped back, gasping, while the final trickles of his release dribbled over Frodo’s hand and wrist.
“That’s it,” Sam said faintly a short time later. “You’ve killed me for certain this time, I know it.”
Frodo’s chuckle was a warm breath stirring the damp curls at his nape. “You say that every time, sweeting.” He released his hold on Sam’s softening cock, and put his soiled fingers to his mouth. “Mm,” he said, after a moment. “You taste even better mixed with lavender honey.”
Sam summoned a weak laugh. “Insatiable you are, Frodo Baggins.”
“Only for you, my Samwise. Only for you.” Frodo hugged him, and gently soothed with his lips the red marks his teeth had left in Sam’s shoulder. Gone was the imperiousness, replaced by a tender cherishing that, as always, undid Sam utterly.
Time passed; the birds returned, and curious bees buzzed around, drawn by the allure of the spilled honey. One alighted on Sam’s left foot, briefly investigated the honey-clumped curls, and then droned off.
“I’d best clean up afore them bees decide to have their own picnic on me, Frodo,” he said, and attempted to sit up - no easy matter, for not only did it indeed feel as if the bones inside his limbs had turned to the consistency of honey, but his back was now stuck to Frodo’s shirt with dried sweat. Frodo chuckled again and assisted Sam to peel the cloth away. But as Sam shifted his buttocks on Frodo’s lap, a belated realisation occurred to him.
“What about you?” He looked at Frodo contritely. “A ninnyhammer I am, and no mistake, takin’ my pleasure and forgettin’ yours.”
“Ah, but my pleasure was not forgotten, beloved, for it was in your pleasure that I found my own,” Frodo replied, seeming at ease despite the noticeable erection still in evidence beneath the brown velvet.
“I am no randy tween, Sam, who must needs find gratification every time he is aroused,” he said. “There will be time and enough for that later.” His eyes swept up and down Sam and a smile twitched at his lips. “But I think a trip to the stream to wash up is clearly our first order of business.”
Sam got up, tottering a little on legs shaky as those of a newborn foal, and surveyed the blanket, liberally besmeared with honey and seed. “A proper mess we’ve made,” he said guiltily. “This blanket’s fair ruined, Frodo.”
Frodo shrugged nonchalantly and righted the nearly empty honey jar. “There are more where it came from, beloved. Bag End is positively overrun with spare blankets.” A haughty expression settled over those exquisite features. “You aren’t implying that you’re sorry for what just happened, are you?”
“O’course not!” exclaimed Sam, horrified. “I never meant… I just…” Then he caught the lurking twinkle in the depths of Frodo’s eyes and said severely, “That weren’t kind, Frodo. Not kind at all.”
“But you forgive me.”
It was a statement, not a question, and Sam could only smile, if a tad ruefully, knowing himself fathoms deep in love with this enchanting, maddening, quicksilver hobbit who for some inexplicable reason loved him back.
Frodo gathered up Sam’s discarded clothes, which through some miracle had avoided the mess, and rose to his feet. “Come, my heart,” he said, smiling and holding out his very sticky hand. “Your bath awaits.”
Sam took it, and together they set out for the stream, crossing a carpet of grass strewn with wildflowers like living jewels, and they did not return to finish their picnic for a very long time indeed.