Seducing Sam: An Embarrassing Confession by Lbilover

seducing sam
seducing sam

It was embarrassing to confess, even to himself, that Sam inspired him to compose poetry. Not just any poetry, either, but the sort of excessively flowery poetry that had privately made him roll his eyes when it was aimed at him (which it frequently had been; he was cursed with eyes and skin and lips and hair that seemed to provoke his admirers into making poetical asses of themselves).

With the greatest difficulty Frodo managed to keep the dratted verses in his head and off his tongue or any parchment. But the words themselves refused to be quelled no matter how hard he tried. They snuck slyly past his guard when he gazed upon his Samwise bathed in sunshine, or with dirt on his hands and sweat on his brow, or when he smiled and his eyes crinkled at the corners, or when he laughed his deep, throaty laugh at some jest, or hummed under his breath as he kneaded dough. And when Sam was naked, the flowery phrases blossomed like the plants he so devotedly tended, or rose like the airiest souffle he baked for Frodo's delectation.

Inevitably one night, in the heat of passion, a couplet slipped out. 'Rutilant pleasure rod, bedewed in pearly splendour,' he murmured before sliding his lips around the delectable mushroom-shaped head of Sam's cock.

'What did you say?'

Oh no! thought Frodo, realising that he'd spoken aloud. 'Nothing, sweeting.'

'You made up poetry about my cock,' Sam said in amazement.

The unflappable, impertubable Frodo Baggins turned rutilant as Sam's cock. 'Very bad poetry.'

'But I liked it,' said Sam, and to Frodo's astonishment he was beaming. 'No one ever made up poetry about me before, Frodo. It makes me feel special. Beautiful, like an Elf or summat.'

Sam's patent delight at the ridiculous flowery phrases had the oddest effect on Frodo. For a moment he feared that he, Frodo Baggins, might actually cry. Instead he took refuge in banter. 'If you consider that poetry, beloved, then the hours I've spent teaching you Elvish have been a complete waste of time.'

But Sam wasn't having it. ''Tis poetry if I say it is, and if there's more in that queer brain of yours, I want to hear it.'

'On your head be it then,' replied Frodo, and he meant it literally, for never was cock-head addressed with such florid metaphors and lustful similes, until it spilled over in its delight, which was quite equal to Sam's.

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