West of the Moon

A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive



Supply and Demand
Eighteen-year-old Sam has some extra spending money. He decides to use it to buy favors from Frodo. Yes, this is high on the list of Things That Would Never Happen in Canon.
Author: Fennelseed
Rating: NC-17


Author's Note: I owe Teasel the dedication, since her fabulous "Frodo Hill" planted the tantalizing idea of rentboy!Frodo in my mind - although I do realize that Frodo paying Sam, not vice-versa, is somewhat likelier. Too bad. I thought this would be hot, so I wrote it. You might just be squicked, however. Will be continuing and hopefully concluding over the next week or so.

* * *

Sam laid out the silverware on the table, looking at his reflection in the fine metal, admiring the sheer value of the things. Bag End was full of this stuff, things worth more money than anything his family had at home. He touched a teapot reverently with his knuckle, then picked up a rag, which he dipped in the foul-smelling polish.

Appropriately enough, Frodo and Bilbo were discussing money in the next room. Sam could hear every word, but as it was a philosophical discussion and not a domestic dispute, he knew it was all right for him to listen.

"I'm just saying," said Frodo, "that if we did away with money altogether, and reverted to exchanging goods and services alone, it would be much simpler and fairer for everyone."

"Oh, that's the naivete of the young!" scoffed Bilbo. "We all come up with that brilliant idea when we're thirty."

"Well, what's wrong with it?"

"Money is a necessity. A necessary evil, if you will, but necessary all the same. Imagine if you need new trousers. What do you do? You go to the tailor. But perhaps all you have to offer him, in exchange for your trousers, is apples and pears, and what if he doesn't need those? Say he wants salted pork. Then what do you do?"

"Go to someone who supplies salted pork and offer that person the apples and pears," Frodo said promptly.

"You've just made your errand much more complicated. And what if they don't need your pears, either? What if they want their roof fixed?"

"Well, surely we know someone who does that."

"You're missing the point, Frodo. The point of money is that it's much simpler to assign a value to everything, agreed upon by haggling, and use gold and silver and copper to represent that value. Then when you want trousers, you can go pay for trousers. And the tailor can take your coin and buy whatever he wants, and so can the butcher, and the roof-fixer, and so on."

"I suppose," said Frodo, sounding suspicious. "I just wish people wouldn't be so tight-fisted about it. It always seems money makes everyone more unhappy than happy."

"People have problems when they don't have enough of it, that's true. But in truth money saves us from a good deal of unhappiness. If everything were given away free, or as an exchange for goods and services, as you propose, we'd always be wondering if we'd been cheated, or if someone had given us what they did out of pity. We'd resent nearly everyone we did business with - if it could be called business."

"Well." There was a scrape of a chair; Frodo was getting up and walking toward the kitchen, where Sam was. "I shan't be giving Sam any cause to resent us, then." Frodo appeared in the doorway, swinging a leather bag of coins. "Sam, I've been learning the household accounts from Bilbo," he greeted. "And thereupon it falls to me to pay you, as this is Sunday. You are paid weekly, on Sundays, yes?" Frodo opened the bag.

"Yes, Mr. Frodo," Sam said. "If it pleases you."

"No objections from me. Now, my stingy uncle-" At these words Frodo raised his voice so that Bilbo would hear him. "-apparently has paid you six coppers a week, but I've convinced him to give you a raise and make it seven. I'll hear no argument."

"Thank you, sir. Thank you very much."

Frodo counted out seven copper pennies and set them in a neat stack on the tablecloth, beside Sam. "There you are. And Sam - I'm just learning this, so if I ever forget one week, or get it wrong, do remind me. All right?"

Sam smiled shyly. "I will, sir."

Frodo smiled back, and strolled out. Sam, polishing a spoon, gazed at the stack of coppers, deep in thought.

* * *

The next Sunday, Frodo found him, in the garden this time, and dropped the seven coppers into Sam's hand. "There. I remembered."

"Thank you, sir."

"Don't spend it all in one place." Frodo winked, and went back inside.

Sam looked down at the coins for a while, then pocketed all of them save one, and followed Frodo into the smial.

He found him in the library, settling down at a table piled with parchment. "Oh, hello, Sam. Did I miscount?"

"No, sir," Sam assured. "I...I wanted to ask you something."

"I hope it's not a difficult financial question. Obviously Bilbo's better with those, and he's out for the afternoon."

"No, the question's for you. I was wondering..." And Sam set the single copper penny on the desk. Frodo frowned at it. "...if I could buy a favor from you."

Frodo's eyes flicked to Sam's, puzzled. "Sam, I'm sure you needn't pay me for favors. After all that you do for us around here..."

"It ain't just any ordinary favor," said Sam. His voice was low, out of breath. He was beginning to sound like a grown-up, despite being only eighteen.

"Well, what is it?" asked Frodo, innocent and concerned, twirling a white quill between his fingers.

"I wondered if..." Sam's eyes flew to the floor; his cheeks were flushed pink. "...if you'd touch me. If you'd make me...make me...feel good, as it were."

Slowly, Frodo's mouth fell open. The quill fell from his fingers and landed on the desk. "You wish...to buy...erotic favors? From me?"

Sam nodded, his eyes darting away nervously. "Think that's the word, aye."

"Sam...what in the world..." Frodo leaned over the desk, rubbed his eyes with both hands, and burst out laughing. "Oh, I understand. You're joking, aren't you? I believed you for a moment! You're a clever one."

"I'm not joking."

Frodo sent Sam a skeptical glance. "You're not?"

"No, sir."

"Sam..." Frodo leaned back in his chair, let out a deep breath, and regarded his young servant for a moment, in something like amazement. "Sit down, will you, please?"

Sam uneasily sat down on the chair nearest him.

Frodo folded his hands on the desk. "I realize you're young...and that you want to experience these things, with someone else...but I must tell you, it just isn't the done thing, to walk in and offer money to anyone you like for it. It could be taken incredibly badly. I feel I should warn you, so that you don't try it with a lass who has a father prone to violence, or anything."

"Beg your pardon, sir," Sam mumbled.

"It's all right. I'm...flattered, in a strange sort of way. But, really, where did you get such an outlandish idea?"

"Well..." Sam clutched and twisted his hands together between his knees. "I was talking to some other lads, who've done work in some of the great houses, among the fine folk like yourself and Mr. Bilbo...and they said it was common for the gentlehobbits to use the serving folk for such favors. Said it was considered part of their duties, like. Part of what they pay 'em for."

"Oh, dear," lamented Frodo. "It's not. Not in any official sense. Not in the houses with any integrity. They do it, I suppose, but it's not right..."

"Well, but it made me think," Sam pressed on. "In a way, they're just paying those folk to do such things. And I've heard tell there are ladies, in Bree and such, who'll do it too. It's a - an exchange of services for money, like you were saying to Mr. Bilbo last week."

Frodo dropped his head to his hands for a moment. "Yes. Yes, I suppose it is. They do say something about it being the 'oldest profession'..."

"So I was thinking - well - I want someone to do it for me. I want it so much. But I wouldn't want them to resent me for it, or feel cheated. So I thought I'd offer to pay."

A wry smile twisted Frodo's lips. "And I'm worth a whole copper penny, am I? Thank you, Sam. I don't know what to say."

"I'd give you two," Sam quickly said. "Three, even. All I'd want is...is for you to touch me."

Frodo's head collapsed to his arm, on the desk, and he fell to laughing again, sadly now. "No...no, I'm sorry, Sam. I can't help you there, I'm afraid."

Disappointed, Sam stood up. "All right. Sorry if I insulted you, sir. 'Twasn't meant that way, not in the slightest."

"I know. I'm not insulted." Frodo sat up in his chair, and cast a sympathetic gaze on him. "Listen, Sam - if you really must, I'm willing to take you to Bree, and find one of those ladies for you. I've never done it before, but I'm sure..."

Sam quickly shook his head, looking down at his toes. "I wouldn't want one of them. Not someone I don't know, don't trust."

"Well...you're still young." Frodo got up and came around to touch Sam's shoulder, gingerly. "I know it's difficult when you're that age, and it's all you can think about. But you'll find someone. And even if you don't...well, most of us get by with our own hands, if you understand."

"I know about that," said Sam sullenly. "Just tired of it, that's all." His eyes darted to Frodo's, briefly. "You ever get someone to do it with, when you were my age?"

Frodo leaned on the desk and folded his arms. "Yes...yes, I had a girlfriend when I was eighteen. We did a few things like that." He smiled at the memory. "I won't pretend it wasn't exciting."

Sam looked down again, unhappily.

"Sam, don't worry," Frodo soothed. "I won't tell anyone what you said here. And you will find someone, someday. You will. You're as handsome a lad as any I've seen."

"I'm not half the beauty you are," mumbled Sam. Then he walked to the door, saying, "I'll be off, sir. Sorry again." And he was gone before Frodo could say more.

* * *

They said nothing out of the ordinary to each other all week. Each was avoiding the other, out of tact. But on Sunday, Frodo reluctantly gathered seven coppers in his hand, and went out to find Sam.

By the trail of gardening tools he found him, far back in the rows of climbing bean plants, on his knees in the farthest and most hidden corner. Sam had his back to Frodo; the late-spring sun painted his hair gold.

And he had his hand between his legs, and was breathing fast and stroking himself. Whether he had opened his trousers or not, Frodo couldn't tell from here, but then he didn't stay long to find out.

Retreating on tiptoe, shock registering on every feature, Frodo made his way back to the first bean row. He stared around himself, wildly, as if hoping to find help among the plants. He headed back toward the smial, then stopped, turned back toward the bean rows, stopped again, and turned back once more. He repeated this circle several times before sighing and letting his shoulders droop. Squeezing his eyes shut, he came to a decision. He turned about, faced the bean rows, and coughed loudly. "Sam?" he called. "Are you out here?"

There was silence for a few seconds, then: "Back here, sir," in hurried tones.

Frodo walked slowly to the last row, giving him time, and found Sam climbing to his feet. "Here," said Frodo. "I've brought you your pay."

"Oh. Thank you." Sam held out his hand.

Frodo counted the coins into Sam's palm, one, two, three, four, five...six... Then he paused, and looked into Sam's face. "You know, I...I've thought about your proposal."

"Oh - you needn't have thought about it, sir." Sam was blushing deeply.

Frodo held up the remaining penny between finger and thumb. "I'm willing to, at your original asking price."

Now it was Sam whose mouth fell open. "You- you are? Why?"

"Because I don't want you to be so distracted you can't even work. And I can't bear the thought of you running to some harlot with a disease, in Bree. You deserve to have a friend do it, at least." Frodo lifted the penny an inch higher, and his eyebrows lifted too.

"But," Sam gasped. "You said it wasn't the done thing."

"It's not. But since you offered, I accept."

"You don't have to, sir. I don't need you to."

Frodo looked briefly, directly, at the bulge in Sam's trousers. "I think you do."

Sam's eyes closed miserably. "Of course I want to, but..."

"You lie down," Frodo said. "I pocket this penny. Five minutes from now, life goes on as usual, only you're a good measure happier. And I shan't resent you for it."

"Sir..." said Sam, in a whisper.

"No one's around," said Frodo. "Lie down."

Sam could not move.

Frodo stepped up and took his elbow, guiding him back to the patch of grass in the corner, walled in on three sides by trees and tall bean-rows. "Don't you want to?"

"Yes," groaned Sam, and collapsed to his knees.

Frodo went down with him, and eased him onto his back. Kneeling beside Sam, he shakily began untying the laces on Sam's breeches. "Like this?" he asked, uncertain. "You just said to touch you, so...my hands...is this what you..."

Sam nodded, quickly. He helped Frodo get the breeches off. The sunlight washed over a mass of young golden curls and stiff, dark, rose-colored flesh. Frodo swallowed and laid a trembling hand on it, not daring to look at Sam's face yet. He began rubbing gently. Sam whimpered, and rotated his hips.

"Like that?" whispered Frodo.

"Yes. Harder. Please. You won't h-hurt me..."

On his knees, looking down at this unlikely sight, Frodo stroked harder, chewing his lip in anxiety. But what he was doing seemed to be working: Sam, who had apparently been in a state before, was now thrusting under him, his breath quick and tortured. Frodo tightened his grip, circling a thumb under Sam's moist shaft.

Sam let out a moan. "F-faster..."

Frodo obeyed, going faster, up and down, feeling the flesh harden and swell under his hand; and Sam moved his hips to match. Suddenly Sam bucked and gasped, and his wet release shot over his belly. Frodo twitched his knee backward so it wouldn't touch his trousers. A warm droplet ran between his fingers. When Sam's body sagged down onto the ground, Frodo removed his hand and quickly wiped it on the grass.

"Ah..." was all Sam could say.

"I'm not a professional, but I hope that was worth your price," said Frodo.

"I would have paid...all seven for it," Sam said, and relaxed into a vulnerable, elated smile.

Frodo chuckled. "Then you would have overpaid. In fact, you already have. A whole copper, for sixty seconds of my time? You've been robbed, Master Gamgee."

And while Sam smiled bashfully at him, and did up his trousers, Frodo climbed to his feet and walked away. You had to look closely to see that he was trembling a little.

* * *

Four days later, Sam edged into the front parlor, where Frodo was writing a letter against a wooden tablet on his lap. Frodo glanced up, warily. They had not spoken much in the past few days. "Hello, Sam," said Frodo.

"Sir," answered Sam, with a respectful nod. "Is Mr. Bilbo out, sir?"

"Out to the world." Frodo focused again on writing. The quill scratched against the page. "Taking his afternoon nap."

"Then I was wondering...if you had time, and were willing..." Sam's hand turned over, and opened to display a single copper.

Frodo's eyes cut aside to it, and lingered there. Then he nodded, and returned to his letter. "Just let me finish this. I shan't be ten minutes."

"Oh, no hurry," Sam assured. "Thank you, sir. I'll wait out front."

"I must have done all right last time," said Frodo, who now sounded sly. "If you want me again already." Sam paused, and looked at him. Frodo was still writing, still looking at the paper, but his lips were curled in a smile.

Sam ducked his face down, smiling in turn. "Aye. I do. And you did."

* * *

"Can I take my breeches all the way off?" Sam asked. They were in the tool shed this time. Stripes of sunlight, carrying motes of dust, fell across them where they stood.

"It's your penny," Frodo shrugged. "I'm only here to please."

"I want to be able to move my legs better," explained Sam, tugging down his breeches and linens. He gathered them up in a bunch, and draped them over a sawhorse. His erection stood out from between his shirttails.

Frodo stepped up and wrapped his hand around it. Sam let out a shuddering breath and gripped the sawhorse for balance. He planted his feet wider apart; his testicles swung free between his thighs. Frodo squeezed, watched Sam's whimpering reaction, then asked, "Do you want to be standing? It's all up to you."

"I...no. I'd rather lie down again."

Frodo helped Sam out of his shirt, and spread it on the wood-slat floor for Sam to lie back on. "Where do you want me?" Frodo asked. "Beside you, like before?"

"That's fine," said Sam.

Frodo stretched out beside him, this time on his side inside of his knees. He propped up his head with an elbow on the floor, and brought the other hand back to Sam's groin. A stripe of sunlight fell right there, along the length of Sam's nude arousal, throwing each ridge into relief with tiny shadows. Frodo traced a finger down it slowly, watching it twitch upward.

"Uh..." Sam grunted. He opened his legs. "Squeeze it...please..."

Frodo obeyed, squeezing the hardness, moving the hot skin up and down. "Tell me how you like it," he whispered. "It's all for you."

"Like that...that's good...mm, please touch the tip..."

In the beam of sunlight, a drop glistened there, full and quivering and ready to fall on Sam's belly. Frodo hesitated, then cupped his fingertips under it, and smeared it around on the sensitive skin at the head.

"Oh, yes," groaned Sam, "making it all slick...I like that..." He was thrusting and writhing. "I'm close already...I'm close..."

"You like to talk during it, don't you?" observed Frodo, in a gentle purr.

Sam's teeth flashed in a breathless laugh. "Guess I do. Never knew till now."

"Talk all you like." Frodo began stroking harder. "It's important to know if I'm doing my job well."

"Oh...you're doing it well...so well...so...uh...uh...uh!" Sam whiplashed, and came.

This time Frodo helped him wipe up, fetching a rag from the tool-cleaning bench to do so. Then he hopped to his feet. "Best return before Bilbo notices I'm gone," he said.

"Wait - sir - " Still sitting bare-bottomed on the floor, Sam grabbed his trousers from the sawhorse, dug into the pockets, and said, "Here." He flipped a penny to Frodo.

Frodo caught it one-handed, uncurled another smile at Sam, said, "Do visit our establishment again," and went out.

* * *

That Sunday, Frodo called to Sam from the study as he passed the window. "Sam! Come over here, would you?"

Sam walked up to the sill. "Yes, sir?"

"Payday. I was reminded, when I saw you." Frodo, leaning out, started dropping coins into Sam's hand, counting as they fell. "Three, four, five..."

"Sir," Sam interjected.

The sixth coin fell. Frodo held onto the seventh, and raised his eyes.

"If...if you're willing, and if you just want to keep that one..." Sam said.

Frodo plucked it away, with a knowing smile. "Tool shed after lunch?" he offered.

When Sam had nodded shyly and gone on his way, Frodo returned to the desk, opened a drawer, and took out a small wooden box with a serpent carved on its lid. He removed the lid, and dropped the penny into the box, beside the two others.

* * *

That day's adventure in the tool shed was much like the previous session, only Frodo's hands became surer, and so did Sam's voice. Anyone would have thought, to watch the encounter, that young Samwise would be sated for a week.

But the very next day he stopped Frodo in the kitchen. Bilbo and Frodo had just finished second breakfast, and Bilbo had gone out for a walk. Sam was clearing up the dishes, and Frodo was standing up to leave, but Sam said, "Hang on a moment, please, sir."

Sam put his hand in his pocket and brought out a copper. Blushing like a red tulip, he looked at Frodo beseechingly.

"Already?" laughed Frodo. "Why, it's hardly been a whole day."

"I know," whined Sam. "But I'm dying for it. I had a dream about it last night, and woke up all hard this morning, and I've been that way ever since."

"Ah, to be eighteen again," Frodo sighed. His eyes fell to that region of Sam's body, which was hidden by an apron. He put his hand there, and felt around till he found proof that Sam was not exaggerating. Sam squirmed, with a sound that was part giggle and part moan.

"Some people," Frodo teased, "would just take care of it themselves, and save money."

"I like it so much better when you do it," coaxed Sam.

Frodo smiled, and took the coin from him. "All right. Come on, my room. I imagine you'll be quick enough that we shan't be caught."

They tumbled into Frodo's bedroom, where Frodo shut the door and pushed a trunk in front of it. "Old trick of mine," he said. "For when I want some privacy." He turned and gave Sam a shove on the chest, knocking him onto the bed. "Let's move that apron, shall we?"

Apron pulled up, breeches pulled down, Sam lay writhing on Frodo's blankets, Frodo straddling his thighs and massaging him between the legs with both hands.

"Like that," Sam gasped. "Yes...touch me underneath...oh..."

"You're insatiable," marveled Frodo, obediently cupping Sam's sac with one of his hands. "Know what that word means?"

Sam's eyelashes lifted, and his eyes focused on Frodo. "Means I can't get enough of it," he said, and wriggled his hips.

"Smart lad. Such a large vocabulary." Frodo squeezed him on the last word.

"Mm...more...yes, harder."

"Tell me what you like," said Frodo, in a ragged whisper.

"I like you rubbing me when I'm hard...it's all I can think about...oh, you're so good...I want it day and night...oh!" As Sam came, jolting beneath him, Frodo swiftly reached out one hand to keep the spurts from dripping onto his bedcovers.

"Good lad," he breathed. "Good lad."

* * *

Sam held out for another three days, then waylaid Frodo on the front path, when Frodo was returning with some fresh bread. Sam pressed a penny into his hand. "When Mr. Bilbo goes out for his walk after supper, sir?"

"All right, all right, you little tomcat," Frodo said, smiling, and took the coin inside with him.

That night, after Bilbo picked up his walking stick and went strolling out, lauding the fine sweetness of the spring evening air, Sam put down his dust-rag and looked over at Frodo. Frodo put down his book and stood up. "Where to, my lad?"

"I liked your room," Sam said shyly. Frodo approached, and slid both hands down Sam's waist, rubbing in circles along his hips. "Oh? Well, I imagine it is more comfortable than the floor of the tool shed."

Sam put his hands on Frodo's hips as well, and gripped tight, breathing audibly. "Aye. And I like to think of you lying there. I like to lie naked where you lie naked."

"Hmm," said Frodo. He took one of Sam's hands, held it above his head, ducked under it as if they were dancing, and led Sam down the corridor.

In his room, after sliding the trunk in front of the door, Frodo sauntered toward Sam, who was standing, fidgety, next to the bed. "How do you want it, you dirty little thing?"

Sam bowed his head. "Well, I...I had a new idea. But I don't know if you would..."

"The worst I'll say is no."


To ease Sam's shyness, Frodo sidled up next to him, cupped a hand between Sam's legs, and slid his nose up Sam's neck. "Come now, you mustn't be timid after all we've done. Tell me."

"Uh," Sam gasped. "I want to r-rub against your backside." When Frodo's hand paused, Sam rushed on, "I don't mean go in. Just rub against. With- with you lying on your front, under me. If you will."

Frodo's hand flexed in a caress, then lifted. "I think we can arrange that." He slipped his suspenders off his shoulders, unbuttoned his shirt, and shrugged his arms out of it. It rippled to the floor. Bare-chested, he hopped onto the bed on his knees, where he looked over at Sam. "I suppose," said Frodo, now wavering a bit, "you want me to take my trousers down as well."

"Only if you're willing," said Sam, voice trembling with desire.

Frodo answered with a brief nod, and coyly turned his back. Still sitting up on his knees, he undid his trousers and slid them down, giving Sam a full view of the backside he coveted, but no view whatsoever of the front. Frodo hastily stretched out onto his stomach, folded his arms under his head, and turned his face toward Sam. "Well, come here, then," he invited. His eyes crinkled in a mischievous smile, and he wriggled his rear.

Sam choked out a whimper, then started fumbling to tear off his own trousers. They hit the floorboards, he kicked them away, and then he was atop Frodo, fitting a knee on either side of him, fitting himself along the cleft of Frodo's rear. The tip of him, hot and damp, bumped Frodo's tailbone. "Oh, you're beautiful," Sam breathed, laying trembling hands on Frodo's backside. "Can I touch...?"

Frodo, head turned aside on the pillow, nodded. His upper arm hid his mouth and nose; only his eye and cheekbone peeked out from beneath the tousle of dark hair. His eyes were open, but closed as soon as Sam squeezed his flesh and started moving. "Oh, having you under me...oh, this feels so good..."

Frodo's wrists were crossed above the pillow, his knuckles brushing the polished wood of the bed frame. His hands, unaccustomed to being free, caught the wooden edge and held tight, bracing him against the rocking motion. His eyes were still closed. "Good, Sam...tell me how it feels..." he murmured, against his own shoulder.

"Better than anything...I love touching you. I want to touch you more... Does it feel good, when I do this to you?"

"Yes...I'm fine, Sam. Don't give it a thought; this is all about you."

"But I want to make you feel good." Sam's thrusts slammed against him harder; his palms pushed up and down Frodo's back and rear. "I want you to feel as good as this. I love thinking of you this way...thinking of you being hard like this, wanting it this much..."

"You've got me nude and at your mercy in my own bed," said Frodo, hands flexing on the bed frame, hips being pushed into the sheets. "Think of that, my dear."

"I know and I can't believe it. Oh...this is the hardest I've ever...the best - uh - I've ever - uh!" With great shudders, Sam spurted over Frodo's back, and wilted, his forehead resting on Frodo's spine, his breath skittering down Frodo's skin.

A few drops oozed down Frodo's ribs and soaked into the sheets, but Frodo kept his eyes closed, panting, holding onto the bed frame.

* * *

Sam never went more than three days without asking for it. Some weeks, they had as many as five trysts. Once or twice, Frodo expressed concern about Sam's financial depletion, but Sam assured him he'd been saving up for a while and had never known what to do with his earnings anyway. What Sam earned was riches compared to what most folk of his station got, he said. The Bagginses were awfully good to the Gamgees. Awfully good.

So on they went, varying location and time so that Bilbo would never suspect. On a hazy, cool afternoon they lay in a thicket of ferns, deep in the woods, and Frodo learned Sam's contours with his tongue, holding down Sam's bucking pelvis with both arms. On a warm, still morning with cottonwood fluff floating through the air, Frodo sat against a tree by the river, with Sam in his lap, and his hands down Sam's trousers; Sam lolled his head on Frodo's shoulder and whispered his desires against Frodo's throat. During an evening thunderstorm in early summer they took shelter in Bag End's cellar, where Sam thrust against Frodo's bare backside, on a bed of empty potato sacks.

Nearly every time, Sam returned to the same question, among his throaty voiced fantasies: "Do you like it? Does it make you hard?"

"I like it fine," Frodo would soothe. "You're hard, you're so hard. That's all that matters. This is for you."

"Just tell me you're hard," begged Sam, once, sliding against Frodo's rear - his favorite position - as they lay in the tall grass of a field on a cloudy, humid afternoon. "Oh, please tell me, just tell me."

Frodo, eyes closed, clutching the grass and breathing through nearly-clenched teeth, whispered back, "Yes. I'm hard, of course I'm hard."

Which was all it took to make Sam cry out in climax. Afterward, though, he timidly reached for Frodo's leg, as Frodo hitched up his trousers with his back turned. "Do you want me to...?" Sam asked.

"No!" Frodo fired back. "No." His voice softened, and he knelt again, cleaning off his hands with a bunch of dried grass. "It wouldn't be right, Sam. Please, trust me."

"Even if that's what I want? Even if I paid you more?"


"Then why do you do all this?"

"Because you want it. You're eighteen and you need it. And I want to please you." Frodo flung aside the grass and looked at Sam with a hint of an impish smile. "And because it makes me look unusually good at managing the household accounts."

But in the heat of the moment Sam could not stop asking for a look, to see Frodo hard, just to look. After five or six such inquiries, Frodo gave in. They were on his bed, where he was sitting astride Sam and stroking him. "All right," Frodo said, guardedly, sternly, "but only to look." He undid his trouser buttons, and pulled aside the flap to expose himself: stiff, curving upward, a mirror of Sam's excited body inches below. Sam took one look, seized Frodo's hand against himself, and came.

"How can you stand it?" Sam asked, dragging his clothes back on that day. "Watching all that and not doing it?"

"As you get older you learn to control such urges," said the aloof Frodo, straightening the sheets.

"You must do it alone sometimes," Sam insisted. "How could you not, after all that?"

"That information is not for sale," said Frodo, his voice on the cold side. "For your own good." Then he tapped Sam on the nose with a fingertip to make him smile, and pulled the trunk away from the door. That was the sign that the rendezvous was officially over.

* * *

On a hot morning in mid-summer, Frodo sat alone in cool water in the bathtub. Bees buzzed outside the closed shutters; the bathroom was dim and dank, like a cave. Frodo slid down comfortably, eyes shut, till his head rested on the rim of the tub. Underwater, his hand crept lower, and he sucked in a breath between wet lips. He gripped and pulled between his legs, moving his hips upward slowly. He caught his lower lip between his teeth. A grunt escaped his throat, followed by another as he started stroking, tight and slow, up and down. His lip slipped from his teeth and he whispered disjointed words of lust, in an echo of Sam's voice and accent.

There was a knock on the door. With a great splash, Frodo pulled away his hand and sat up. "What?" he called. "I'm in the bath."

The handle turned, and Sam himself peeked in.

"What?" Frodo repeated, a little less irritably this time.

"Dark in here, sir," commented Sam. Then his eyes adjusted enough to admire Frodo, and he edged into the room. "Mr. Bilbo just stepped out, and I knew you were in here, so I thought..."

Frodo lowered his eyes to the surface of the water. Even in the dim filtered light he could see the obviousness of his desire, though Sam could not see it from there. "Well..." he hedged.

Sam closed the door and came a few steps closer. "I love to look at you in naught but your skin," he said, in low, adoring, lustful tones.

A shiver rippled through Frodo. "Oh?" He slowly placed his hands on the sides of the tub, and pulled his dripping body up out of the water. He turned so Sam could see him, all of him, swollen and wet. "How do you like that?" he whispered.

Sam could say nothing, for a wonder, except a strangled sort of whimper. Then he was turning the key in the door - the bathroom was one of the only rooms in the smial with a lock - and rushed to the tub, unfastening his breeches.

"Spread a towel there," commanded Frodo, pointing to the floor. Sam, shoving down his trousers, spared a few seconds to obey. Frodo climbed out of the tub and crouched down on the towel, knees apart. Sam, naked from the waist down, did the same, facing him.

"Oh, you're a wondrous creature," Sam groaned. "Just look at you."

"My hands are wet," Frodo said, reaching for Sam and gripping him, eliciting a grunt. "Do you like it?"

"Oh, yes...oh goodness yes..."

"It feels good...doesn't it?" Frodo's voice shook.

"So good... Were you touching yourself? In the bath?" Sam looked with longing down Frodo's body again. "Is that why you're so hard?"

"Yes," breathed Frodo, damp nose touching Sam's cheek. "I was. Does that excite you?"

"Yes," gasped Sam. "Oh, yes."

"Now I want to touch you."

Sam moaned, arching into Frodo's hands. Frodo caught his gasping mouth in a kiss wet with bathwater, sucking and nibbling hungrily, sliding his tongue along the inner folds of Sam's lips. Sam's mouth moved uncertainly in response; his head pulled back a little; then he recovered and met Frodo with eagerness. Frodo rewarded his efforts with a murmur, a lick, and a more fervent stroke.

"You never kissed me before," Sam said in wonder.

"You've never asked me to. I'll stop if you don't like it." But even as he spoke, Frodo was dragging his slick lips down Sam's chin and along his jaw, planting a fierce kiss every other inch.

"Oh, I like everything you're doing." Sam's knees twitched open wider.

"Lie down. On your back," Frodo directed breathlessly.

Sam did as he was told, but asked as he tumbled over, "What are we doing?"

"How would you like it if I lay on top of you?" Frodo asked, forcing Sam's legs down and pressing his groin against Sam's. "If I rubbed against you? Mine..." He gave a slow buck of his hips. "...against yours."

"Uh..." Sam threw his head back on the towel, shutting his eyes. "Oh, you're all wet and hot...do it again..."

Frodo pinned down Sam's arms, and thrust again, harder, lip curling in lust as Sam moaned and twisted. "Good Samwise...you want it from me, don't you."

"Oh, yes...I want it something awful..."

Frodo leaned harder on Sam's arms, slammed harder against his rigid young body, pumping in a rhythm. "Like this? You want it like this?"

"Yes," gasped Sam. "I love feeling you hard. I love feeling you wanting it."

Frodo stopped his mouth with a bruising kiss, holding down a flailing knee with his leg, grinding their bodies together. He finally broke his face away to breathe, gulping down air at Sam's ear. "This is all for you," he said, in a whisper.

"You want it too," Sam insisted, panting and writhing. "You're so hard. I want you to come too. Please. I want to see you come."

Frodo, thrusting as if he could never stop, leaned his forehead into the side of Sam's neck and gasped out, "You want it? You want it, Sam?"


"I'll give you - what - you - ah - want - ah!" Frodo's head fell to Sam's shoulder; spasms jolted through him; his hands squeezed Sam's wrists tightly.

Feeling the burst of warmth and wet at his navel, Sam cried out and pushed his hips up frantically, thrusting until he tumbled over the crest after Frodo, mere seconds later.

They lay there in a tangle, gasping for breath, damp all over. Outside, the bees still buzzed; the sticky summer air still hovered around the smial.

Frodo put his palms on the stone floor and pushed himself up, unpeeling his body from Sam's. He got to his feet, weak-legged as a fawn, wearing the marks of towel-weave on his elbows. He looked down sorrowfully at Sam, who looked in astonishment up at him. Sam's shirt was splotched with wet patches, his lips were purplish-red from Frodo's rough kisses, and his arms, still flung above his head, bore crescent-shaped indentations where Frodo's fingernails had dug into them.

Frodo inhaled carefully, and turned away. He wrapped a towel around himself, wiping off the sticky patches. "Thank you, Sam," he said, suddenly the gentle young master again. "I hope I've relieved your needs for the time being."

"That you have," said Sam, who sat up and used the side of the towel he was sitting on to mop himself up. "That was the best ever, if I may say so."

"Good," said Frodo. "I'd best get dressed." He picked up his discarded nightshirt and moved toward the door.

"Sir, wait." Sam reached for something on the floor. When Frodo turned, Sam was holding up a penny for him, eyes expectant and trusting, the warm brown color of a puppy's.

Frodo closed his eyes for a moment, and opened them with a sigh. "No, Sam," he said, exhausted, sad. "You don't owe me anything for that. We're even." He bent and planted a brief kiss on Sam's forehead, and shuffled out of the bathroom.

Frodo went to his room, pushed the trunk in front of the door, and, still wearing nothing but the towel, sat down on his bed. He bent over his lap, dropped his head into his hands, breathing shakily, and stayed that way for at least half an hour.

* * *

The next morning dawned hotter and more humid still. In a room washed with too-bright sun and too-stuffy air, Frodo lay naked on his back with the sheets kicked off, eyes squeezed shut and eyebrows drawn low in concentration. His hand moved, quick then slow, slow then quick, and he breathed through open lips, sweat beading on his forehead. The strokes came faster, faster, and then he choked out a groan of pleasure, his whole body twisting, uninhibited.

He fell limply onto the mattress, opened his eyes, blinked at the ceiling beams. He sighed unhappily, stretched out an arm for a handkerchief, and dabbed himself off, grimacing as he looked down at his work.

* * *

That afternoon in the library, as he studied a formidably-sized book on the grammar of Quenya, Sam sneaked in and slipped his arms around him. "Have a moment, sir?"

Frodo wrenched his shoulders and threw Sam off, without looking back. "It's too hot, Sam," he complained. "Don't touch me."

"Sorry, sir," said the stunned Sam, who stood and watched his master's back for a moment before adding, "We could go to the pond, and get in the water. Then it wouldn't be so hot."

"I have better things to do than service you at every opportunity," Frodo snapped.

Sam's breath slipped out in a shaky sigh. His posture withered. "I see."

"Why don't you go on and do it alone. Save yourself a copper."

Sam made as if to step toward the door, then hesitated. "Yesterday, you...you said you enjoyed it. I thought maybe..."

"You thought maybe what?" Frodo turned a page, swiftly, and slapped at an insect hovering near his neck.

"Well, I...I've brought a coin. And you can have it, whether or not you get any pleasure...though I'd like you to."

"You cannot buy my pleasure, Sam. Money can only do so much."

Sam bowed his head. "So you didn't really enjoy it."

"What goes on in my head was never part of this arrangement," Frodo said, over his shoulder, though his eyes still did not touch Sam. "I told you that was off limits."

Sam nodded, and swallowed. "Yes, sir."

Frodo turned another page, pressed a hand to his damp forehead, and stared at a line of Elvish characters. "I don't mean to be harsh. But you never did understand, and you must grow up."

"I understand one thing," said Sam, quietly. There was a tremor at the edges of his voice. "That theory of yours and Mr. Bilbo's, it weren't right."

"What theory?"

"About there being no resentment if a price is agreed upon, and paid. I see that was wrong. Sir."

Frodo emitted a bitter laugh. "Oh, it's all very well if you're talking about salted pork or apples or books. But it will never be true when one person is offering to buy 'services' from another. It's too intimate and there will always be resentment. That is what you never understood. And I should never have taken pity on you and agreed to do it." As he spoke, his face again turned aside, so that Sam could see him in profile, rosy lips sneering, blue eyes glaring across the floor, dark eyebrows furrowed, the beautiful features bathed in a sheen of sweat.

"Pity?" echoed Sam, in a pained whisper.

The lovely, furious face turned away from him, back to the book; all he could see was damp curls and shoulders. No answer.

"Ah; I see," Sam said at last. "Then I'm most dreadfully sorry, sir. I shan't ask you for it again." He slipped out of the room, blinking quickly to dam up the brimming tears.

When he was gone, Frodo turned in his chair, chest rising and falling fast, and looked at the empty space in the doorway. Then he buried his face in both arms, on the desktop, and muffled a low, keening cry into them.

* * *

He found Sam in the last bean row, in the same place as that first day of their arrangement. In the shade of the oak tree, Sam was pulling weeds from the vegetables, gulping and sniffling. Frodo approached him, and knelt down. Sam heard him coming, and held still, suspicion stopping his sobs.

Frodo put his arms around Sam from behind, and lowered his face to Sam's shoulder. "Oh, Sam," he whispered.

Sam reached up and clutched his arm. "I'm sorry," he whimpered. "I didn't know. I didn't think it would hurt us. I should never have asked in the first place."

"I should never have said yes," lamented Frodo, softly, against Sam's shirt. "It only hurts because I like it so much."

Sam turned to look at Frodo. Frodo slipped back and sat against the trunk of the oak, setting his forehead against his knees, hugging his ankles. "I had never thought myself desirable," he explained, in a broken voice. "I was so flattered when you asked. I thought I'd do it, just to be kind to you. I always want to please people.

"The first time - right here -" He waved limp fingers toward the grass at his feet. "- I felt such power. To be able to do that to you, to turn you into something so different than what everyone else saw...it was intoxicating. I thought all the while that you were the one under my power. But of course I was wrong."

Sam knelt in the grass, eyes fixed on Frodo in longing and fascination.

"I enjoyed it," said the wretched Frodo. "I loved it. It made me so aroused. Even holding back from you, even that was exciting. And then yesterday, when I couldn't hold back anymore..." He shook his head, and finally lifted it and gazed at Sam from under wet lashes. "You're eighteen, Sam. I'm thirty. I have no right."

"It was my idea," pleaded Sam.

"I should have guided you better, by telling you no." Frodo covered his face again. "Long ago. Before I got accustomed to it."

"I kept asking you," Sam said. "It was my fault."

"But I knew better. I made excuses. I told myself that if I only gave pleasure to you, and took none, then it wasn't entirely wrong." He snorted in derision. "As if the money made it 'even'; no resentment, no pain."

Sam slumped back on his heels. "I should never have asked," he repeated.

Frodo rubbed his eyes against his sleeve, and straightened out one leg so he could reach into the pocket of his trousers. "Here," he said. He brought out a cloth bag, clinking with the sounds of currency. He tossed it into the grass at Sam's knees. "It's everything you've paid me, from the first day. Please don't try to give it back to me. I won't take it."

Sam picked up the bag and emptied it into his hand. Bright coppers spilled and overflowed onto the grass. "There's so many of them," he said, sounding almost frightened.

"Eighteen," said Frodo, wearily. "Would have been nineteen, if I'd taken your penny yesterday."

Sam collected them into his hands, watching them shine in the sun. "I thought you said you were putting 'em back into the household accounts."

"I wasn't. I was saving them. I thought...I thought perhaps I'd buy you something, a gift." Frodo, clutching his hands together between his knees, looked down in shame. "But there was nothing I could think of. How could I buy you a gift for this? How could I give you something, which you'd have to look at and think every time, 'That's my reward from Master Frodo, for services rendered.' " His voice had grown bitter and brittle by the end.

Sam kept tilting the coins between his cupped palms. "You were worth every one, sir," he whispered. "You were worth them in silver or gold, if I had it."

The sound of a shaking sniffle made him lift his head. Frodo was looking away, lips tugging downward, brows tensed to fight off sobs. He swabbed his eyes swiftly with the cuff of his shirt.

"I mean it," Sam said, eyes flooding with sympathetic tears. "Don't be sorry. I don't resent you. I couldn't bear it if you hated me."

"I don't hate you," said Frodo, in a high, strained voice. "Quite the opposite."

Sam let the coins scatter into the grass, and moved forward to embrace Frodo's up-bent knee, the part of Frodo nearest to him. He pressed his forehead to it and kissed the shin-bone through the cloth. "Please don't cry," he entreated. "Do you want to stop meeting, is that it? I told you, I won't ask if you don't want to anymore."

"I want to. But we shouldn't. You're too young, and you're in my employ...it isn't right." Frodo, head down, wiped his face and said in a small voice, "If you find someone else, I'll understand. A sweetheart, I mean; no money exchanged."

"I don't want no one else. That's why I asked you." Sam's knuckles nudged Frodo's leg in reprimand. "You ninnyhammer."

Frodo gave him a pained smile. "I'm still too old for you."

"I don't think you're old," Sam insisted. "You seem like - like an elder brother, maybe; that's all."

Frodo broke into a sudden laugh. "You've an interesting view of family relations, Sam."

"Well, you know what I mean." Sam's soft smile turned anxious. "So...are we not to do it anymore? Not even once in a while?"

"If we do -," sighed Frodo, placing a hand over Sam's, "and I can't see how I'll resist, some days - there shall be no coins involved. That much is certain."

"Agreed," Sam said.

"We must be less frenetic about it. Try to act like normal lads, like good friends, not...not tomcats." Frodo squeezed his hand. "Promise me you'll do it yourself in the mornings, all right? That's how I've been resisting you, all these days. Yesterday you caught me before it was done; that was the trouble."

"Ah," said Sam. He lowered his head, and shyly traced the seam of Frodo's trousers. "Seemed you still liked it to some measure those other days, though."

"Oh, yes." Now an echo of heat simmered behind Frodo's voice. "That's why I say it will only work most of the time. I'm still young enough - and I know you are - for 'twice in a day' not to be impossible. Especially in the face of...temptation."

The words had grown husky by the end, and young Sam could not resist climbing up and kissing Frodo's tear-swollen lips. They kissed for half a minute or more, Sam whimpering as he tried slipping a tongue into Frodo's mouth, and found that Frodo was willing to suck on it. Then Frodo placed gentle palms on Sam's chest and held him back.

"I've forgot," he said, with a sympathetic smile. "I may have done it this morning, but I imagine you haven't."

"Nay, I was...I was waiting for you," Sam sighed.

"Well...perhaps you should take care of it," Frodo suggested. He moved to get up. "I can leave you for a while. I'll sit outside the garden and make sure no one intrudes."

"I'd rather have you watch," was Sam's counter-suggestion. He still sat in the grass on his knees, with his thighs parted. Along the inside of one, Frodo could see the stiff outline he had come to know well.

"Oh, heaven help me," he moaned softly, "you've done it again." Frodo brought his hand to his own swelling groin. "Why don't I join you?"

Then they were tearing open buttons, shoving down cloth, and tipping onto their sides in the shade of the tree to kiss while they stroked themselves.

"I've never," Sam gasped, "put my hand on yours. I want to. Please."

"Oh, then do," Frodo answered, and arched his pelvis toward Sam. When Sam's hot, damp fingers closed around him, he groaned long. "Ah...you've no idea how much I've wanted that."

"This is all for you," Sam whispered, and a grin surfaced on his glowing face.

Frodo laughed, in breathless joy. "It's for us...both." On the last word he transferred his hand to the familiar textures of Sam's body, and began the quick, tight strokes that he knew Sam loved.

Sam moaned. "Oh yes...oh, I love this so much...I love you..."

"And I you, Samwise," Frodo whispered, working his palm and fingers rapidly on Sam's flesh.

Sam tossed his head back and gasped out several short groans as he reached his climax, his own hand still gripping and rubbing between Frodo's legs.

"Oh, Sam, oh yes..." said the trembling Frodo.

Sam, still panting for breath, smiled and pushed Frodo onto his back, so that he could spend the next few minutes exploring and toying with the private areas of Frodo, to which he had so long been denied access. Frodo lay back trustingly, his thighs flung open and an arm draped over his forehead, while Sam touched and tickled and nuzzled and teased, with fingertips and knuckles and, as he grew braver, nose and lips. Frodo giggled at first, but became increasingly aroused under Sam's attentive ministrations, and pushed his groin upward to encourage Sam, vocalizing in murmurs how good it felt.

"I like how you smell," Sam said, rubbing his nose up and down Frodo's length.

"Ah..." Frodo lifted his hips. "You're torturing me..."

"Mind if I...lick..." And without waiting for an answer, Sam slid his broad tongue from the tip of Frodo down to the base, while his hand fondled Frodo's swollen sac.

"Oh, yes - ah, I'm so close - oh, oh..." Frodo bucked and twisted in a frenzy.

With one more long lick, and a tight squeeze to go with it, Sam brought Frodo to a shuddering finish. Then he swiped up Frodo's release in his hand, reached down, and rubbed it quickly into his own swelling arousal until coming a second time, in less than a minute. Frodo watched all the while with helplessly exhausted longing.

"Well," panted Sam in defense, "you did it twice today. I wanted to as well."

Frodo chuckled. "I don't mind at all, my dear."

Sam recovered his trousers from their crumpled heap near the trunk of the tree. "So much for our plan of not doing it overmuch, eh?" he said, ruefully.

"We'll start that tomorrow," said the diplomatic Frodo. "I think we needed this, after such a difficult conversation."

"Will you let me buy you a drink at the pub this evening?" Sam offered, scooping up the coins. "That's what normal lads do. And I reckon I can afford it."

"All right. Let's see if we can't get into a heated debate about the price of horses or something. I imagine that will cool down our affections."

"Worth a try, sir."

Frodo buttoned up his trousers, crawled over, and gave Sam a long kiss, into which he inserted a generous helping of tongue. "See you there, Samwise," he said, and got up and strolled back to the smial.


* * *


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