The Contest by Lbilover

This is story is based on Fennelseed's classic Frodo/Sam fic Lessons in Maturity. It might be considered as a missing scene. I did my best to emulate her inimitable style. Hopefully it is at least an echo. :-)

It was Sam’s idea. He had many good ideas, Frodo had discovered.

“It’ll be a contest, like,” he said, quickly removing his trousers and under-garments, and settling into his usual spot on the thin blanket next to Frodo, with his back to the treehouse wall. He spread his thighs with their sprinkling of fine golden hairs until his left knee was touching Frodo’s right.

Frodo eyed Sam’s already splendid erection, longer and thicker than his own. “You’ll win.”

“Not necessarily. The scrawniest pony sometimes outruns the larger ones.”

“Calling me scrawny, are you?” Frodo was affronted.

“I never said no such thing.” But Sam reached over and patted him apologetically.

Frodo gasped. “Enough of that, Sam-lad, or this contest will be over before it begins.”

“Sorry,” said Sam, but his eyes were sparkling with mischief. “Ready?” he added eagerly, taking himself in hand.

Frodo nodded, and grasped his own shaft, nicely plump and faintly moist.

“All right: one, two, three, go!”

The contest elicited even more pleasurable sensations than previous naughty experiments had. Frodo repeatedly stroked his hard length, watching as Sam did the same, working the loose skin of his shaft up and down with enthusiasm. He’d come (Frodo half-gasped a giggle at the well-worn pun) a long way since their first meeting ten days’ earlier.

Harsh gasps and low moans filled the treehouse as their contest progressed. That, plus the suggestive wet sound of slippery hands pumping and twisting, intensified the competitive atmosphere, with both hobbits determined to do their best.

Not surprisingly, Sam, who had had less practice, after all, and lacked Frodo’s degree of control, came (no pun intended, this time) first.

“Frodo, I-I’m about to…” he whimpered. His head fell back against the wood with a thump. His back arched. A long, drawn-out ‘Unhhhh’ escaped his lips as a pearly white stream of fluid exploded from him. It shot past the edge of the blanket and landed just beyond his hairy toes, which were curled with the intensity of his effort.

“That… will be… hard to… beat,” gasped Frodo, aroused beyond belief by this proof of Sam’s prowess. His fluid-slick hand moved faster on his shaft until it was almost a blur. “Any… second…” he panted, heels braced and behind bouncing on the blanket. And then it was his turn to explode; the intensity of it blurred his vision so that his own results didn’t come into focus for some few seconds.

“How… how’d I do?” he breathlessly asked Sam.

“Champion,” Sam said. “I reckon we might have a tie.”

“Really?” Frodo felt inordinately pleased.

“Didn’t I tell you the scrawny ones can do right fine?” Sam teased.

“Hey!” Frodo cuffed Sam’s bare shoulder lightly. Sam grinned.

“Well, let’s take a closer look, shall we?” Frodo proposed.

They shifted forward onto their hands and knees, spent shafts and testicles dangling freely, and examined the results of their contest. Stringy droplets of white fluid decorated the wood floorboards and blanket in two parallel lines, and those that had travelled furthest appeared approximately level.

“I should have brought a straight rule, so we could measure,” commented Frodo, who was a stickler about such matters.

“’Tis close enough to satisfy me,” said Sam. Using one blunt forefinger, he smeared the two lines together, mingling their seed. “I declare a tie,” he announced, and held his finger up.

Frodo stared at it. His heart, that had barely ceased its erratic pounding, sped up again. Here was something they hadn’t yet tried. He cleared his throat. “I’d…like to taste it,” he said in a rush, and before he could change his mind, he rocked forward and sucked Sam’s finger into his mouth.

He lapped tentatively at the pad with the tip of his tongue, and then more eagerly, relieved that the taste was far from unpleasant. A little bitter, perhaps, but somehow intimate, dark and exciting.

“What does it taste like?” Sam asked curiously. His breath was coming faster and his eyes had gone heavy-lidded and dark. He liked what Frodo was doing to him, that was clear. In fact… Frodo’s gaze dropped to Sam’s shaft, now pointing slightly upward. It was definitely showing signs of recovery. The sight sent a lustful jolt of arousal straight to his groin. Seemed Sam wasn’t the only one recovering nicely.

Frodo released Sam’s finger, and smacked his lips. “Why don’t I show you?” he suggested with a sultry look. Balancing on the palm of his left hand, he slid the other into the sweat-darkened chestnuts curls at the nape of Sam’s neck and tugged.

They fell into one of those delicious damp kisses that were a daily part of their repertoire now. Sam got busy licking the inside of Frodo’s mouth, and his deep-throated hums of approval told Frodo that the unusual taste appealed to him, too.

When they finally pulled apart, panting, Sam said, “Eh, it tastes grand. Special, like naught else I’ve tried.”

“Yes,” agreed Frodo. But he was distracted by the sight of Sam’s erection, jutting stiffly out now. Such powers of recovery were really quite remarkable, and had the most amazing effect upon him. He reached between Sam’s thighs, grasped him and squeezed. Sam let out a blissful moan then reached between Frodo’s thighs and returned the favour.

“I’ve… I’ve heard this… isn’t possible,” gasped Frodo, as they squeezed and fondled each other. “Not this… fast at… any rate.”

“You’ve been talking to the wrong people then,” Sam said. He rolled onto his back, pulling Frodo down on top of him in a tangle of sweaty limbs. They writhed frantically, rubbing their aching shafts together and building a delightful friction that grew and grew. The resultant explosion rivalled their previous ones, and left them both limp as dishrags.

“When’s Mr. Bilbo due home?” Sam asked. He was petting his hand along Frodo’s damp back as if Frodo were a cat. Frodo would have started purring if he could, it felt so wonderful.

Frodo consulted the helpful rays of sun slanting through the green leaves overhead. “Not for a few hours.”

Sam yawned. “Good. I’ve no mind to move yet. Don’t know if I could. My whole body’s turned to pudding this time.”

“And mine to jelly.” Frodo caught Sam’s yawn, and said around it, “I wonder what naughty idea you will come up with next.”

But Sam did not reply. His eyes had closed and a tiny snore issued from his mouth. Frodo smiled and laid his cheek on Sam’s chest. “Sweet dreams, Samwise,” he said, and followed him.