Written for the LJ Lavender Oil challenge. Frodo and Sam are now living happily and kinkily together at Bag End, and it is Sam’s birthday. Please note: contains cross-dressing, role-playing and very explicit sex.~*~
Sam was dreaming. It was one of those dreams.
He was lying on top of the bedcovers, naked as a jaybird, and with his legs spread indecently wide. He was propped up on his elbows so that he had a perfect view of his jutting prick, standing out stiffly from the coarse hair at his groin, and an equally perfect view of dream Frodo kneeling between his splayed legs, his slender naked body a marvel of candlelight-warmed ivory and rose. Frodo was running his hands in light, teasing circles up the insides of Sam’s thighs, causing goose bumps to break out as delicious hot-cold shivers chased each other across his feverish skin. As Sam watched through heavy-lidded eyes, his heart thudding in anticipation, Frodo moved closer and closer to his goal, trailing the backs of his fingers along the tender crease of Sam’s thighs before one cool hand wrapped firmly around the base of Sam’s shaft. Sam cried out and fisted his hands in the bedclothes as Frodo lowered his head and his clever muscular tongue insinuated itself into the slit at the crown, and fluttered teasingly along it. Equally clever fingers delved between Sam’s legs to caress the sensitive spot just behind his aching bollocks, and then the middle finger reached for the dark, fur-circled opening and pressed inward. “Nnnghngh,” Sam said, his eyes rolling backward as sparks of sensation ricocheted through him, and dream Frodo gave a low, husky laugh. “You love having my finger up your arse, don’t you, Sam,” he purred, licking Sam’s shaft as if it were a lollie from the sweet shop in Bywater while he pushed his finger deeper. Sam flung his head back and cried out, a cry that turned into a wail as moist lips closed over the head of his shaft and suckled, eager as a babe at the tit, and a second finger joined the first inside him and moved slowly in and out, brushing with each pass across the spot that sent him spinning into mindless ecstasy. His toes curled, his body arched like a bow and then Sam’s dream abruptly ended in spurts of hot cream spilled deep into Frodo’s welcoming throat.
Sam stretched languidly, finger-and-toe-tips still tingling from the intensity of his climax, and swam slowly up from unconsciousness to meet a pair of bright, bright cobalt eyes that held an amused gleam in their depths. Frodo, naked, was kneeling between his trembling thighs, as he had been in the dream. Only, it hadn’t been a dream, Sam realised, for a small cluster of pearl-like droplets glistened on Frodo’s upper lip.
“Happy Birthday, my love,” Frodo said as he carelessly wiped his fingers on the sheets. He licked his lips. “Mm, I can taste the Old Winyards from supper last night. I vow, I’m becoming drunk on you, Sam, and before first breakfast, too.”
“I thought I were dreamin’,” Sam confessed, feeling dazed.
Frodo chuckled. “I woke to find you randy as a goat- as usual.” He gently tweaked Sam’s softening cock, and Sam blushed a little, for he knew it was true: asleep or awake, his body never stopped craving Frodo. “I wanted to see if I could bring you off while you still slept, and I did,” he crowed triumphantly.
“I ain’t never had such a grand start to my birthday, and that’s a fact,” Sam said, and sighed a happy sigh.
“I should hope not.” Frodo’s eyebrows snapped together in a sudden frown. That possessive look flared to life that still caused Sam to wonder what in Middle-earth this wondrous creature could possibly see in him, plain Sam Gamgee the roper’s son from Tighfield. Blue fire was burning in Frodo’s eyes as he planted his hands on either side of Sam’s shoulders and leaned forward to kiss him with considerable fervour. As he did, his leaking shaft brushed wetly across Sam’s rounded belly, a potent reminder that Frodo had not yet found his own release.
Sam no longer found the taste of his seed on Frodo’s lips queer or off-putting, as he once had, but even better was the taste of Frodo himself. With a litheness that belied his bulk, he twisted, and in the twinkling of an eye their positions were reversed, and Frodo lay panting beneath him. “’Tis my birthday and I’m the one as should be givin’ the gifts. And besides, I’ve a mind to get drunk, too,” Sam said huskily, sliding down.
“Well, that was lovely beyond belief, Sam,” Frodo said, having recovered enough to sit up at last. “But where is my real present? It would be too cruel of you to make me wait any longer, especially when I’ve been the very soul of patience for an entire week.”
“Soul of patience?,” repeated Sam incredulously. “What you’ve been is a right nag, worse’n my sisters. ‘Why can’t I have my present now, Sam?’ ‘Can’t I at least have a little peek, Sam?’ ‘Hold the box just for a second and rattle it, Sam?’ And I ain’t even a-goin’ to mention what else you tried on me so’s I’d give it to you early.”
Frodo attempted to look haughty, a difficult task when one was sitting cross-legged without a stitch of clothing on in the middle of a sex-rumpled bed, and then he sighed dramatically. “You are the only hobbit in Middle-earth who can resist me, Sam. I don’t know how you do it.”
“It ain’t easy,” Sam admitted, drinking in the sight of that lissome form. Late morning sunshine set fire to brown curls the colour of fresh conkers, those shapely lips were bee-stung, ripe and red as strawberries, and those forget-me-not blue eyes held a satiated glow. Oh, you beauty you, he thought. I reckon Eärendil would lean right down from the heavens and put the Silmaril in your hands if you asked him.
“But I daresay that’s one reason I love you so,” Frodo said, and an imp of mischief appeared in his eyes. “For it’s all the sweeter when I get my way—and I always do, in the end.”
“Oho, I’ve half a mind not to give you your gift after all,” said Sam, crossing his arms on his bare chest. “The cheek.”
“Sa-am,” Frodo pouted, but the corner of his mouth was quivering. He moved one foot so that the soft brown curls that adorned it in glorious profusion brushed sensuously against the back of Sam’s knee, something he knew quite well drove Sam mad.
“You don’t play fair, Frodo Baggins,” complained Sam, nearly whimpering aloud as another silken caress teased his sensitive flesh.
“Of course not. Where would the fun be in that, I ask you?”
Sam threw up his hands and laughed. “All right, I give in. You can have your present.”
One thing about Frodo: he was never smug. The smile of pure delight that curved Frodo’s lips and lit his eyes was ample reward for his capitulation, Sam decided. He slid down from the bed, aware that Frodo was, as usual, frankly admiring his naked body. He sometimes thought that Frodo would be happiest if they went about bare-arsed naked all the live long day—Eru knew, he did his level best to get them both undressed whenever the least opportunity presented itself—but practical considerations, such as the shock the sight would give the tradeshobbits who delivered goods to the smial, made such an idea (while tempting) definitely ill-advised.
Sam knelt on the carpet and stretched his arm under the bed, groping for the large rectangular flat box he had hidden there a week earlier.
“It’s under the bed?” said Frodo’s voice from above, sounding absolutely mortified. “But I never thought to check there.”
“Aye, instead you poked that pointy nose o’yours into every dusty cupboard and storage tunnel in the smial, or dragged me off to ‘em to make love. Don’t think I didn’t notice you lookin’ around, even when we was, well, in the middle of other things, so to speak. I reckoned you’d never tumble to the real hidin’ place, though, and I were right.” Sam, unlike Frodo, couldn’t help but sound smug at the success of his scheme.
“That was most unfair of you,” Frodo said, sounding aggrieved. “But I confess that the sight of you kneeling there with your bum in the air is inclining me to forgive you. You do have the most splendid arse in the Four Farthings, Samwise Gamgee.” A heartfelt and admiring sigh succeeded this statement.
But despite Frodo’s flattering assessment of his bottom, a nervous flutter like a dozen butterflies flapping their wings invaded the pit of Sam’s stomach as he pulled the box out with hands whose palms had become suddenly damp. Truth to tell, his ability to resist Frodo’s best efforts had been due in part to a cowardly desire to put off this moment for as long as possible. What would Frodo think of the gift Sam had chosen for him? What would he think of Sam for choosing it?
He rose to his feet on knees that felt decidedly wobbly. “I- I do hope you like it, Frodo,” Sam said, and held out the box to Frodo before he could change his mind. The butterflies in his stomach were multiplying at an alarming rate, until he half expected them to start flying up his throat and straight out his mouth.
“Oh Sam, but of course I shall like it,” Frodo said, almost snatching the box from Sam’s grasp. “How could you possibly doubt it?”
With the exuberance of a child on Yule morning he tore off the lid and tossed it aside. His eager hands parted the brown paper that protected what lay inside- and then stilled. Slowly, very slowly, he lifted his present from the box and held it up: a gown of sumptuous midnight blue silk, shot through with silver so that it shimmered like moonlight on the Water. The low-cut bodice and puffed sleeves were trimmed with silver satin, and matching silver satin ribbons were attached that tied at the waist. The full, flounced skirts spilled across Frodo’s lap, and the sight of the rich blue material against his creamy skin set Sam’s pulse to leaping erratically.
There was a silence, dreadful to Sam’s ears, while he awaited Frodo’s reaction. The butterflies turned to lumps of lead as the look of bright anticipation on that flawlessly beautiful face faded, and disquiet replaced it.
Weighted by those lumps of lead, Sam could have sunk straight through the floor. Oh sweet Eru, what have I done?, he almost moaned aloud.
“I’m a fool,” he blurted out miserably. “I oughtn’t to have given it to you. I’ll take it back. Oh Frodo, please forgive your Sam if- if you can.” Tears of humiliation burned his eyes. He’d thought Frodo wouldn’t mind, that he’d understand… Oh, but he’d been wrong and ruined everything.
Sam reached impulsively for the now-hated dress, but Frodo whipped it out of reach, shaking his head emphatically. “No indeed. You shan’t take it back.”
“But I thought…” Sam was confused by Frodo’s contradictory behaviour. The way he was clutching the gown possessively to him didn’t seem as if he thought Sam strange and perverted for giving it to him.
Frodo’s eyes held an apology. “I am the one must needs beg forgiveness. Oh Sam, I love your gift, I do, but it must have cost you a fortune. Material such as this is very, very dear. You shouldn’t have spent so much on me, indeed you shouldn’t.”
“And why not?” contradicted Sam, as relief flooded through him. “There’s naught too good for you, Frodo, and I had the coin I saved from workin’ for Mistress Lobelia. ‘Twas mine to spend as I pleased, and it pleased me to spend it on you.”
Inside a small voice was repeating: Frodo loves the dress! Frodo loves the dress!
With his vastly greater experience, Frodo had introduced Sam to many aspects of lovemaking over the months; some of them had come as a shock to a country-raised lad, but all of them proved pleasurable in the extreme. But even a hobbit as sophisticated and adventuresome as Frodo might balk at being asked to play the lass.
“Besides,” Sam added, exulting at the sight of Frodo holding the midnight blue silk against him with every evidence of pleasure, “soon’s I saw the cloth in the dressmaker’s shop in Tuckborough when we was visitin' Pippin, I knew 'twould look a treat on you.”
“Did you?” Frodo smiled, a secret and very pleased smile. “But I’m not surprised. You’ve a splendid eye for colour, Sam, as I discovered the first time I saw your hidden garden in the woods, the day I fell in love with you.” The smile widened. “And what did you tell the dressmaker? That you were having a frock made for the Master of the Hill?” His eyes were now dancing with mirth.
Sam blushed. “I told her that it were for my sister,” he confessed, recalling the awkwardness of that transaction. When he’d picked up the bolt of silver-shot silk and smoothed his hand over it, when he’d imagined how it would caress Frodo’s naked skin, silk on silk, he’d started getting hard- not a condition he’d wanted the seamstress to notice and believe was inspired by thoughts of his sister!
“Very wise,” Frodo approved. “What we do together is no one’s business but our own.”
“Aye, we gave ‘em more’n enough to gossip over the day we left Mistress Lobelia’s hole,” Sam agreed. If the good citizens of Hobbiton ever discovered what else they got up to, they’d likely expire from shock. Just thinking on certain things he and Frodo had done together since then caused his body nearly to burst into flames.
Not that he had a single regret, of course, but Frodo had been the one to introduce Sam to such secret delights as velvet bonds and dil douls. This was the first time Sam had ever taken the initiative in their love play, and anxiety spurred him to add, “I ain’t never cared for lasses, not like that leastways. So don’t you never think I’m secretly wishin’ you was a female, Frodo, ‘cause I ain’t nohow.”
He wanted to explain how the idea of that sleekly muscled, oh-so-male body hidden beneath a lass’s frills and furbelows gave him an illicit thrill and sent a jolt of sexual excitement straight to his groin, but he couldn’t. His tongue only tied itself into knots as he struggled to formulate the words.
Silk rustled as Frodo raised to his knees, holding the gown against him with one hand, while the other cupped the back of Sam’s neck and pulled him in for a kiss that further tied his tongue into knots, and set his senses to spinning. The gown was pinned between their bodies, and Sam had never felt anything so fine on his naked skin save Frodo himself.
“My love,” Frodo said softly when their lips had parted, “after the months we’ve shared a bed, how could I possibly think such a thing?”
“Then- then you’re alright wi’ wearin’ the dress. Truly?” Sam asked anxiously, wishing to be absolutely certain that this role-playing would be to Frodo’s liking, too.
Frodo smiled, and lovingly caressed Sam’s cheek. “I’m delighted. Firstly, because it gladdens my heart that you trust me enough to ask this of me, and secondly,” and the impish gleam appeared in his eyes once more, “because I quite enjoy playing the lass sometimes. I’d have suggested it myself weeks ago, only I wasn’t sure you were quite ready.”
“You’ve done this before?” Sam stomped hard on the unreasoning jealousy this revelation aroused inside him. Frodo was his now. What he had done in the past no longer mattered.
“A few times; I even own a wig,” Frodo admitted. “Though,” he added with a thoroughly wicked grin, “I’ve never before played the lonely mistress of the smial who has been watching her handsome but shy gardener from the window and longing to bed him…” he let the words trail off suggestively.
Sam’s eyes widened. His cock twitched against Frodo’s silk covered groin, and Frodo laughed.
“Why Samwise Gamgee, you naughty hobbit,” he teased, and Sam blushed again. Still laughing, Frodo twirled Sam about and gave him a playful smack on the rump. “Get dressed and go work in the garden, Sam.”
Sam started to move away as one in a dream, when Frodo’s voice halted him. “Wait, Sam. Take this.” Sam’s eyes fell upon the small clear glass vial filled with pale purple liquid that lived on the bedside table. Frodo held it out to him. “You never know when you might need lavender oil,” he said, his eyes dark with promise.
It was an unusually warm day for early April. The sun was beating down hotly on the back of Sam’s neck as he knelt by a flowerbed and pulled a few weeds from around a clump of butter-yellow daffydowndillies. He was extra careful not to get dirt on his fingers as he did. Pausing, he pulled a faded red kerchief from his breeches’ pocket and mopped the back of his neck. It was warm, aye, but that wasn’t the only reason he was perspiring. The small vial of lavender oil in his opposite pocket was digging into his thigh, and his heart beat a rapid tattoo as he bent again to his work.
“I vow, ‘tis uncommon warm today,” said a light musical voice from behind him. “Do you not agree, Samwise?”
Sam nearly toppled over in his haste to turn around at the sound of the familiar and yet not quite familiar voice. Whatever he had been going to reply flew clear out of his mind as he took in the vision before him: a slender hobbit with long black curls tumbling around her shoulders, skin like fresh milk and enormous blue eyes. She was clad in a silk gown the colour of the midnight sky, shot through with the silver of stars. A band of silver satin was fastened about her waist and emphasised its trimness and the gentle swell of her hips. The vision advanced- no glided- toward him across the grass, her body swaying like a dew-laden flower as the full skirts of her gown shimmered around her.
She stopped a few feet away, and tossed a length of glossy hair back to reveal the slope of a creamy white shoulder bared by the décolleté of her gown. Beads of perspiration bedewed her throat and chest, glistening like diamonds.
“I don’t know how you can work; the heat is so oppressive,” she remarked, and with a practiced flick snapped opened a delicately carved ivory fan she carried looped about her wrist on a satin cord. “Ah,” she breathed as she began to move it back and forth. She tilted her head back. Her hair streamed down behind her in a silken waterfall, and the arch of her neck was graceful as a swan’s. “That feels lovely.”
Sam’s tongue was cloven to the roof of his dry mouth. For the life of him, he couldn’t speak a single word but only follow with fascinated eyes the languid movement of her supple wrist as she wielded the fan. Then she paused in her fanning and looked down at him where he still knelt by the flowerbed, as if he were a troll turned to stone at daybreak.
“Are you not feeling a trifle…overheated, too?” she asked, a hint of archness in her tone. “I was observing you from the window earlier and I thought to myself, ‘Samwise mustn’t overdo it in this unexpected heat’. I’ve been worried about you.”
A thrill coursed through Sam at the thought of her watching him on the sly, and to say that he was a trifle overheated was a vast understatement. “’Tis right kind of you to worry about me, Mistress…” and Sam’s mind raced frantically, until the hard edge of the glass vial digging into his thigh brought inspiration, “…Lavender.”
Mistress Lavender quickly raised the ivory fan in front of her mouth as if to hide a smile. Over the top of it her eyes were sparkling like sapphires, and Sam noticed that there was something subtly different about the shape of them. They appeared elongated like a cat’s, and he realised that the rims had been outlined in black. As she lowered the fan he could see that her cheeks and mouth had been lightly rouged to highlight the curve of cheekbone and the fullness of lips. A nigh overwhelming desire to roughly kiss and bruise that rouged mouth seized Sam, and he lowered his head as if abashed by her concern, and fought against the erection starting to swell the front of his breeches. The lavender vial wasn’t the only hardness poking his thigh now.
“I hope I shall always be…kind to you, Samwise,” Mistress Lavender said, and heaved a plaintive sigh. “I fear that without you my life here would be sad indeed, for you are my only friend in my solitary existence.”
“If a grand lady such as yourself considers me a friend, Mistress, I’m honoured, and no mistake,” replied Sam shyly, glancing up, and a fierce protective instinct welled up inside him at the thought of her loneliness. It was intolerable that such a state should exist for one so fair.
“Oh, but I do consider you a friend,” she assured him, and it seemed to Sam that a hint of tears was suddenly glimmering in her eyes, “and as your friend, I insist that you cease labouring in this heat at once. A cool drink from the well would be most welcome, would it not?”
“Aye, that it would, Mistress.” Sam scrambled to his feet, and awkwardly brushed off his hands on the legs of his breeches, trying at the same time to twitch the fabric around so as to disguise the effect her nearness was having on him. He hesitated, not wishing to appear forward, and then offered her his arm.
“Why, thank you, Samwise.” With a grateful smile, Mistress Lavender immediately slipped her arm through his, and leaned upon it as they paced side by side across the grass. She smelled faintly of roses, and her arm was snug and warm against Sam’s side. Her full skirts, with the edge of a lace-trimmed petticoat peeking out, brushed against his bare calf with every stride in a whisper of silk. It was in equal measures torture and delight, and Sam wasn’t certain if he was more relieved or disappointed when they reached the rough stone wall that encircled the well, and she removed her arm from his.
Her eyes followed Sam’s every movement as he lifted the wooden bucket from the ground and set the rope handle over the metal hook suspended above the well opening. Then he began to turn the crank to lower the bucket, and there was a rhythmic squeak with every turn that was evocative in the extreme of a certain other activity. Sweat broke out all over Sam’s body and his groin hardened even further. He risked a glance at Mistress Lavender; her pretty mouth was hanging slightly open, and her eyes were riveted to Sam’s circling arm with an expression that he’d warrant was identical to the one he’d worn while he watched her fanning herself.
“I need to grease this handle, Mistress,” Sam commented when there was a muted splash that signalled the bucket hitting the water far below, and he flushed as the highly suggestive nature of his comment struck him.
Mistress Lavender bit her rosy lip and then said, in a trembling voice, “I advise you to grease it thoroughly, Samwise.” It wasn’t his imagination that her eyes flicked briefly to the bulge at his groin as she spoke.
After giving the bucket a minute to fill, during which he resisted the urge to press his aching cock against the stone for relief, Sam turned the crank in the opposite direction. Water-laden, the bucket was heavy, and the muscles in his arms and shoulders strained as he raised it slowly upward.
“My, but you are strong, aren’t you,” commented Mistress Lavender in heartfelt tones positively reeking of admiration, and Sam suddenly felt that he could have raised a hundred buckets with the utmost ease. He turned the crank faster and faster, and the bucket fairly flew to the surface, rocking wildly back and forth as it breasted the top of the well wall.
Sam stopped the bucket’s rocking with one hand and with the other heaved it off the hook and set it on the well’s broad rim with a thump. He reached for the tin mug he kept there and dipped it into the bucket, welcoming the coolness of the water on his fingers as he filled it.
Then he offered the mug to his companion, but she shook her head and said, “I insist that you drink first, Samwise.” Her glance lingered on the sweat-darkened shirt where it clung damply to his chest. “For you are in greater need than I.”
So Sam did, gratefully swallowing down water so cold that it made his teeth ache, hoping it might cool certain other parts of him that were definitely in great need. When he was done, he refilled the mug and this time, Mistress Lavender took it from him. She turned it deliberately around, and then placed her mouth exactly over the spot where Sam’s had been, causing his cock to jump as he imagined those plump ruby lips were closing over it instead.
“Mm, delicious,” she murmured when she had drunk, and dabbed daintily at her wet lips with a lace-edged linen handkerchief she had had tucked in her sleeve. “But Samwise,” Mistress Lavender went on with concern as she set the mug back on the well rim, “you are still so hot. Do you not wish to cool your chest and arms? I have oft seen you do so, when I’ve watched from the window.”
Still so hot and getting hotter, thought Sam. “But it ain’t proper for me to take off my shirt in front of a lady,” he objected feebly, while he resisted the urge to start tearing at the buttons posthaste.
“Nonsense. We are friends, are we not?” Her full bottom lip quivered. “Or did you not mean your words after all, cruel Samwise?”
Without a word, Sam shrugged off his braces until they fell by his hips, and then pulled his shirt free from the waistband of his breeches. He tackled the small wood buttons with impatient fingers, and in moments had peeled the sweat-dampened shirt from his torso and dropped it on the ground. There was a moment then very much like that breathless moment before a lightening strike. Despite his overheated state, every tiny hair stood up on the back of Sam’s neck as those enormous blue eyes travelled eagerly over his glistening bare skin in a manner that implied friendship had had very little to do with her suggestion.
“O Samwise,” breathed Mistress Lavender in an awe-struck voice. She moved forward, and dipped her dainty lace-edged handkerchief in the bucket. When it was wet through, she raised the dripping linen, and reaching out, she drew the cool cloth across Sam’s sweaty chest in a sweeping caress. The wonder, a dazed Sam thought as shivers of delight ran through him, was that the water didn’t hiss and start to boil as it touched his skin.
“Does that feel good?” she asked, her hand stilling on his stomach. Her breast was rising and falling rapidly. Blotches of bright colour had blossomed on her neck and chest. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes brilliant blue.
“You know right well it does, Mistress,” Sam said thickly.
“And what about…this?” Her hand moved lower, moulded the wet cloth over the rigid bulge pushing out the front of Sam’s breeches, and squeezed.
In the next instant, all restraint vanished, and with it the divide between mistress and servant. With a growl, Sam jerked Mistress Lavender to him and crushed her mouth under his in a bruising kiss. She dropped the handkerchief and threw her arms eagerly around Sam’s neck.
“Samwise, Samwise,” she breathed against his lips, “I have wanted you for months.”
“No more’n I’ve wanted you, Mistress,” replied Sam, planting hot kisses along the line of her bare shoulders, revelling in the satin smoothness of her skin beneath his lips. Even as he did so, his fingers got busy again. In seconds, his breeches had joined his shirt on the grass, and then his hands were cupping Mistress Lavender’s pert silk-covered rump and pulling her tight. As they kissed again with hungry desperation, he rotated his hips, moaning deep in his throat at the exquisite sensation of cool silk rubbing against his cock.
Suddenly, as if of one accord, they sank together to the grass with Mistress Lavender on top; her skirts billowed out around them in a froth of silk and lace. She bent over Sam, hands braced on either side of his head, and her long black hair spilled around them, forming a curtain that hid them from the world as she leaned in and kissed him, a deep, lingering kiss. Then she shifted, and those silken tresses trailed teasingly across his overheated skin as she brushed her mouth down his throat, and then across his shoulders, chest and stomach, moving ever downward. When she reached Sam’s rigid shaft, she swirled her hair around and around it, the touch of those silken strands on the sensitised skin a torture so exquisite that Sam could only writhe helplessly and tear with his hands at the grass. At last she closed her lips over the head of his cock, and sucked; his hips bucked and he cried out.
Mistress Lavender released him just as he thought he could stand no more. “I think it’s time to grease that handle, Samwise,” she panted unsteadily.
Sam groped blindly for his discarded breeches and found the small glass vial. “Hurry, Mistress,” he urged as he handed it to her. His cock was primed and ready to explode, pearls of fluid were welling up and over. Mistress Lavender sat up astride his thighs and uncorked the bottle, but the ivory fan still dangling from her wrist got in the way. She tore at the silken cord impatiently with her other hand until it broke, and then flung the fan away. Hands free at last, she poured a measure of the fragrant lavender oil into her palm. Then she set aside the vial, rubbed the oil between her palms, and quickly spread it over Sam’s shaft and tight bollocks with trembling fingers. It took every ounce of self-control Sam could muster not to come right there and then.
When she was done, she gathered her skirts in her oil-stained hands, and rose up on her knees, shuffling forward until she was poised just above Sam’s erect cock. Using one hand to hold him steady, she slowly impaled herself on his oiled shaft, pushing down with a low moan of ecstasy, and as the tight blissful heat of her narrow passage encased him, Sam nearly blacked out from the intensity of the sensation. When she was fully seated, they remained still, panting, while her body adjusted to the invasion. Only then did she move, raising up a short way and pushing down again, and again, and again, repeating “Samwise” over and over in a throaty moan as she rode him.
Sam couldn’t see their joining only feel it, for the fullness of Mistress Lavender’s skirts covered the view, but when her hand stole down to her own groin, grasping through the silk to pleasure herself, Sam gasped, “Nay, I need to see you.” He pushed at the silk in an almost frenzied fashion. “Please.”
With a quick nod of understanding, Mistress Lavender pulled the tumble of silk and lace-trimmed petticoat up and back until Sam could see her slender moon-pale thighs, the nest of dark curled hair at their juncture, and what sprang erect, rose-flushed and proud from it. The sight of it framed by the folds of midnight blue silk inflamed Sam beyond all reason, and he clamped his hands bruisingly on her hips, holding her ruthlessly in place while he snapped his hips up hard. Even as he did, a small hand closed around that cock and began to move on it, faster and faster until it was a blur of motion.
As Sam made one final, desperate thrust upward and release roared through him, he felt the splatter of hot seed on his belly. “Frodo!” he shouted, his body going rigid, and then he relaxed against the grass, spent and panting, with Frodo sprawled against his heaving chest.
About a century or so later, Frodo regained enough energy to raise his head. As he looked questioningly at Sam, gauging his reaction to what had just occurred, Sam reached out and gently pulled off the black wig, setting it down on the grass. Then he ruffled the flattened auburn curls, and with the edge of his thumb wiped away the final traces of rouge from Frodo’s bruised lips.
“Mistress Lavender is a rare beauty, and no mistake,” Sam said softly, “but I think I prefer my Frodo best.”
Frodo smiled. “I’m glad, Sam," he said in his usual lower-pitched voice, "for this corset is deuced uncomfortable. I don’t know how lasses can wear them day in and day out.” He gave an irritable tug at his bodice.
“It did feel right queer to hold you and feel that thing instead of you,” Sam admitted, when he’d done laughing.
“Even so, I hope you don’t wish to say farewell to Mistress Lavender forever, my love. She will grow lonely, I’m sure, without her Samwise.” Frodo planted a loving kiss on Sam’s chest, just above his heart. “For she knows as well as I do that he is a hobbit without peer.”
Sam, flushing from head to toe with embarrassment, could think of only one thing to say. “Well, I reckon that crank handle will need greasin’ again one o’these days, Frodo.”