West of the Moon

A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive



The Lion's Den
Frodo studies his prey in the garden, and Sam later spies his master relieving some tension...
Author: Mallorn Gamgee
Rating: NC-17


Author's Note: The author presumes there are lions in Middle Earth and will take no further discussion on the topic.

Frodo crept towards his bedroom window; it was an unusually hot and humid day, and he knew that meant only one thing -- his gardener Sam would be working up a sweat, shirt clinging to his broad shoulders and the planes of his back. Or perhaps he would bend over and then his trousers, which were a bit too tight, would slip down and for once Sam would show his master a bit of cheek while he wiggled back and forth to free a weed from it's comfortable home in the earth.

Frodo licked his lips at the prospect. He hid below the round window and peeped between the thin curtains to catch a glimpse of what he had been dreaming of moments before. He knew it was wrong. Sam was not of age, and would be mortified if he knew his master harbored such fantasies. But Sam would never know and Frodo didn't think a dream kept to yourself ever hurt anyone else.

Ah, there he was. Frodo smiled happily when he spied Sam in the flowerbeds not too far away. Still, it was distant enough that Sam would not know of Frodo's gaze upon him. Sam was planting some new bulbs near the back fence, and his hands patted the soil gently while he sang a little tune. His face was flushed from the heat, but Frodo imagined that was how it might look if it was flushed with passion. He wore a satisfied grin, the kind of smile that Frodo would like to see when he'd finished having his way with Sam. Droplets of sweat ran down the sturdy column of his neck, and Frodo's lips twitched; he longed to lick them off, one by one. They would taste salty, like something else he yearned to sample. Sam's golden brown skin was the same color as honey, and Frodo loved to put honey in his tea. Surely Sam would be finer than anything the bees could ever create.

Frodo moaned and closed his eyes. Why did he torture himself like this? He could never have the lad. He should find a tween in Bree or Buckland and pretend it was Sam -- someone with sunny untamed curls -- and turn him on his stomach, and plow into him the way Sam furrowed the soil of Bag End. Then perhaps Frodo could move on and simply be friends with Samwise again, rather than craving him daily and nightly.

He opened his eyes. Sam had moved nearer to the window. Now he was pulling weeds from the ground, just as Frodo had imagined earlier. He bent over, wriggling his behind as his gloved hands tugged on a stubborn dandelion.

"Listen here, fellow. You might look like a flower but you don't belong in Mr. Bilbo's garden."

Sam's tendency to talk to inanimate objects only endeared him more to Frodo. He wondered if Sam spoke like that to his own hand, or to his lovers. Had Sam had any lovers yet? Surely, he must have, strolling about the Shire looking like that. Others besides himself must have taken notice. It would be a shame to let a fine-looking tween like that go to waste.

Frodo's legs ached. He had been kneeling on the hard wooden floor for a long time as he stared at the hired help. Something else ached as well, and strained against his trousers, begging to be set free. Frodo stood up, cracking the window open to let some fresh air in. Perhaps it was a bit brazen of him, considering what he was about to do, but he didn't care.

Frodo was considered somewhat of a dandy around Hobbiton, and one of the reasons was because he owned a full-length mirror. It had been bought at great expense, because Bilbo would spare nothing to give Frodo whatever he desired. (What if he knew of my desire for the gardener?) The oval looking-glass had a wrought-iron frame, carved with leaves and flowers all along the border, and a lion's head at the very top. The glass rested on iron paws, and the lion surveyed the room quietly.

Frodo did not regard the beast to be a witness to his misdeeds. He stripped off his thin cotton shirt and his trousers, letting them lie at his feet. He gazed at himself appraisingly as he thought Samwise might, while his hands roamed slowly over his body.

Could use some feeding up, sir, you're whippet-thin and pale as the belly of a fish.

Frodo frowned. No wonder he never approached Sam. He lacked confidence. Well, there was that and the fact that Sam seemed to like the lasses. Drat that Rosie Cotton! His eyes flashed fire at the memory of her swishing her skirts at Samwise and his stammering, shy manner whenever she was around.

"Stop thinking like that, Frodo Baggins, or you'll never finish what you started."

Plenty of other hobbits had found Frodo attractive. More than attractive. Frodo grinned as he recalled the words that had been whispered in his ear, or cried out in passion, or written on parchment for only his eyes to see. He remembered them as he ran his hand down his stomach and lightly took hold of his erection.

Your skin is as soft as goosedown...

Frodo's fingers skated over his cock, and indeed it was like satin and he shivered at the touch. Sam's touch would be more pleasing. Frodo opened his eyes and looked in the mirror. He imagined Sam approaching him from behind, strong arms embracing him. It was Sam's hand that was gliding up and down the shaft of his cock, Sam's touch smoothly running over his thigh, Sam's slick fist working harder to pleasure his master. Surely Sam's skin would be rougher than this; it would be callused from many hours in the garden. That rough surface against Frodo's tender flesh would give nothing but bliss.

Your eyes are bluer than the sky on a midsummer day...

Frodo stared at his eyes in the looking-glass. He saw nothing special about them but everyone else seemed to find them compelling. Sam's eyes -- they were something special. They were green or brown, or amber, always changing. If Frodo had Sam pinned beneath him in abandonment, he could gaze into those eyes and know their true color. Frodo's hand moved more swiftly as he thought about this. He shaped his thumb and forefinger into a ring and encircled his flesh tightly, gasping aloud. He could feel the draft from the window, and hear the quiet rustle of the tree branches as they swayed in the breeze. The scent of blossoms in the garden floated in like a sweet perfume that Sam himself had created for Frodo's enjoyment. It was as if all his senses had come alive to him in this moment. If Frodo had Sam in his possession, he would truly know what it was to be alive.

When your touch is upon me, I feel as if I were graced by a spirit...

Frodo leaned forward, moving one hand to brace himself against the mirror as his legs weakened with excitement. His breath was coming in short gasps now. He knew he was not a spirit, because a spirit would not have sweat dripping off its brow as its hips thrust wantonly for the touch of a lover it would never have. Frodo fisted his cock and gripped it tightly as he stretched the skin towards the head.

* * * *

"Sam...oh, Sam..."

Sam's eyes widened when he heard Mr. Frodo calling for him. He tore off his gloves and abandoned his weeding. The voice had come from the direction of the bedroom. Sam noticed that the window was open, so he glanced in to make sure everything was safe and that Frodo wasn't hurt or injured.

That quick glimpse was enough to cause him to inhale sharply and turn away with his back against the wall.

"I don't think I was meant to see that," he said to himself.

Still, Sam was a curious sort of lad. He couldn't help but look again, and a bit more carefully at that. Why had Mr. Frodo left the window open? Mayhap he'd forgotten that someone might see. Sam should keep guard so no one else could spy on his master.

Sam hunkered down beneath the sill, and let his eyes follow to where they most wanted to rest.

Mr. Frodo was...there was no getting around it...he was bare naked as the day he was born. And even more, he was...he was, touching himself...and watching himself in the mirror. Now, Sam couldn't blame him, for if he was Mr. Frodo, he'd look at himself all day as well, because Mr. Frodo was the most beautiful hobbit in the Shire.

The lion that sat atop of the glass was staring back at Samwise, as if to warn against what he was doing. Sam knew that spying on Mr. Frodo wasn't right, but he couldn't help it, especially now that he could look at his master in all his glory. Sam felt like he had just awakened to see the first snowfall of the year; he wanted to run out into the snow and mark it with his footprints. He found himself aching to leave his mark on his master's milk-white skin in the same way. He would taste it, feel it, lose himself upon it. His fingers twitched as he imagined the way Mr. Frodo's skin would feel under them, silky and rich.

Mr. Frodo was moving his hips as his hand slid up and down along his prick. Sam raised his head, trying to get a better look. Frodo's lips were curved into a bow and his eyes were closed, from what Sam could see in the mirror's reflection. Sam began to stir within his breeches as he thought about that mouth surrounding his own prick. But Sam could not imagine that Mr. Frodo would think he was worth taking notice of for such doings, even if he had heard tell that Mr. Frodo liked to dally with the lads.

Mr. Frodo panted, breath fogging up the glass as he leaned his forehead against the frame and groaned deep in his throat. Sam followed the curve of his master's thighs, flexing and relaxing with every thrust, then his gaze moved upwards to that lovely arse. It was like a ripe peach. His mouth watered and he imagined losing himself within those pale cheeks, pleasuring his master until he called out Sam's name...

"Sam! Oh, Sam!"

Sam's hands flew to his mouth. Surely he was hearing things. Mr. Frodo did not say your name, Samwise, you fool.


He resisted the urge to cry out, "I'm here, Mr. Frodo!" He bit his lip and choked back a reply as he watched his master fall to his knees and turn towards the window. He tried to squat down further and hide from view, but Mr. Frodo's eyes were closed and he wasn't paying much attention to his surroundings, anyhow.

Mr. Frodo threw back his head, revealing his strong neck as he moaned and worked his prick with a practiced hand. He had his fist at the tip, and it moved steadily and swiftly. Sam wished that he could help with the task as it looked mighty enjoyable but it was best to sit back for now. With a soft cry, his master shook and shuddered as his seed gushed over his fingers, then he lay down on the hardwood floorboards and sighed.

Sam craned his neck to see what would happen next, but his eyes flickered upwards to the lion, as it was the guardian at the gate, in Sam's mind. He knew the lion held only scorn for the lad who had watched such private matters without asking first. Sam had heard Mr. Bilbo telling tales of these great beasts who would eat intruders alive for merely entering their dens...even so, Sam couldn't look away.

Mr. Frodo was staring at the ceiling. Despite what he had just done, he looked unhappy. He wiped his hand on his leg but then brought it up to his lips. Sam gasped as Mr. Frodo began licking his fingers, tasting his own seed.

"Who's there?" cried Mr. Frodo, as he sat up in alarm.

Sam tried to think of a place to hide, but if he were to stand up, Mr. Frodo would see him. His heavy breathing was going to give him away, yet he couldn't help himself. Anyway, wasn't Mr. Frodo calling his name? Didn't Mr. Frodo want him? What did Sam have to be afraid of?

Still, Sam was afraid. Sometimes when a body gets the thing he most desires, it turns out he wants it no more. That's what the Gaffer always said. Why, only last week, Marigold got that frock she'd been longing for ever since Yuletide, and now she was complaining that it didn't suit her. Who's to say the same thing wouldn't happen if Mr. Frodo were to find out that Sam wanted his master in just the same way?

"I thought I heard something. Frodo Baggins, you shouldn't dream of things that won't happen. It's as if you really thought Samwise would come along..."

Sam yelped at the sound of his name. So it was true! That was why Mr. Frodo left the window open.

A graceful hand appeared over the sill. Sam could smell Mr. Frodo's musk upon it.

"Samwise Gamgee, I see your sunny head beneath my window," a playful voice called out.

"Aye, 'tis me, sir," Sam replied quietly. "I was...weeding...the rose beds?"

Sam lowered his eyes in shame when he saw Mr. Frodo sticking his head out the window.

"Were you now, Master Gamgee? And did you find anything else of interest while you were, as you say, weeding the rose beds?"

Sam looked up, blushing from head to toe.

"If I did, I didn't mean to. I didn't hear anything, likewise. And I won't tell anyone what I didn't see nor hear--"

Mr. Frodo laughed, and it helped Sam to feel at ease so he laughed as well. "Stand up, Sam."

Sam did as he was asked, trying to hide what also stood at attention in his breeches.

Mr. Frodo arched his eyebrow. "Seems someone did see something, my dear Sam."

Sam grinned slyly. "Mayhap."

"Did that someone like what they saw?"

"Mayhap he did."

"Why don't you come inside for a bit? There might be a duty you could attend to."
Sam glanced over at the mirror, and considered the lion's timeless gaze, then his eyes locked with Mr. Frodo's and it seemed to him there wasn't much difference between the beast and his master. They both regarded him as a tasty morsel. Then suddenly Mr. Frodo smiled brightly and Sam found himself willing to step into the lion's den.

"You're right, sir. That mirror could do with some polishing and no mistake."


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