West of the Moon
A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive
Sam is the victim of a cruel joke. Frodo to the rescue!
Author: Melanie Athene
Toby Bracegirdle, Jon Proudfoot and Arni Deepwell were dead hobbits. At the very least, they were living on borrowed time, for once Samwise Gamgee got hold of them, their days on this good green earth were surely numbered.
Sam took great satisfaction in the fact that two of them already sported black eyes. The third was limping and had a bloody nose.
A riled up Gamgee was not a force to be taken lightly.
It had required all three of the burly lads to carry through with their fiendish plan to "bring that uppity Samwise down a peg or two". They had almost needed a fourth. But in the end they had triumphed and, no mistake about it, Sam was well and truly caught.
He glared at them from where he stood in an otherwise empty pony stall, left hand securely bound to one side of the box, right hand to the other. His feet were likewise anchored to opposing grommets, the spread-eagled pose making him feel like a scarecrow hung out in in a cornfield -- though the scarecrow would have had more rags to offer decent cover. Sam was stripped down to his underlinens, his torn clothes carelessly flung to the back of a neighbouring stall.
"We'll just be off then, shall we, Sam?" Jon giggled.
Sam surged against the ropes and Jon stepped back.
"He's going to holler soon as we're gone," Arni muttered nervously.
"Let him," Jon growled. "That's what we want. For someone to find him."
"Shame if they find him too soon," Arni mused.
Toby grinned and pulled an over-sized handkerchief from his pocket. "That's easy enough to fix," he said. Cautiously he sidled under Sam's out-stretched arm and fit the gag in place.
"I don't like the way he's lookin' at me," Jon whined.
"Hand over another handkerchief, then," Toby sighed. He neatly caught the cloth Jon tossed him and draped it around Sam's eyes, tying a nice strong knot that cruelly pulled wisps of Sam's hair. "That's better," he chuckled, and bestowed a friendly wallop on Sam's behind. "You have yourself a nice day, Samwise."
Mocking laughter floated back to Sam's ears long after the Cottons' barn door swung closed behind his tormentors.
The Gaffer would have boxed Sam's ears for sure had he read his son's mind just then. He didn't hold with cuss words, not one bit, no matter how dire the circumstances.
By the time a quarter hour had rolled by, the knots had been thoroughly tested and reluctantly pronounced sound. Furthermore, Sam found himself thinking the same choice phrases over and over, so he abandoned this unproductive line of thought and set his mind to considering more pleasant things.
A delightful fantasy began to play out in his mind; enchanting visions of how he would exact revenge upon the pranksters. But that soon broke down under the chagrin he felt for falling for their prank.
Ninnyhammer, he berated himself. You should have known the Cottons would have sent word themselves had they needed help with haying. You walked into this trap like a lamb to the slaughter.
Chastising himself occupied a goodly portion of the next half hour. Then, for awhile he amused himself by thinking of stories and songs. Like that sweet ballad Mr. Frodo had been singing a few weeks back as he returned from his evening hike. Or the story Mr. Frodo had read him as they sat by the fire one winter's eve. How Mr. Frodo's eyes had flashed as he told of valiant heroes and battles fought long ago, how his voice had trembled on the verge of tears when he spoke of lovers and their tragic losses.
And, for awhile then, Sam just plain thought of Mr. Frodo. What a kind master he was. What a handsome hobbit. Skin pale as the petals of a wild rose. Eyes bluer than the sky. Lips full and red and made for kissing...
No, best not go there, Sam-me-lad, Sam thought, shifting himself about uncomfortably. The only thing worse than being found here like this, would be to be found here all hard and randy.
Noontime's heat filtered in through the slats of the stall. Fine dust motes danced in stray sunbeams and the dry, dusty air tickled Sam's nose something fierce. He would have given a week's pay to be able to scratch.
As the sun reached zenith, the heat increased. Sweat soaked the blindfold, making his eyes burn with the sting of salt. Beads of sweat formed, trickling down his chest like tickling fingers. A fly crawled on his left shoulder blade; he twitched and it flew away, the buzz resonating angrily in his ear. All too soon it, or another like it, was back to annoy him.
Sam stood there stoically. By the end of the second hour, his arms and legs alternated between numbness and a dull aching. He swayed back and forth now and then, shuffling his weight from foot to foot as best he might, and shaking his arms. Trying to keep his circulation flowing, trying to keep his muscles from seizing up under the strain.
Surely the Cottons would put in an appearance soon?
This hope led to a more disturbing thought. Which of them would find him? And more worrisome still, what would be their response be?
It wasn't every day you ran across a near-naked hobbit trussed up in your barn. No doubt Farmer Cotton would be less than amused at the implied insult to his daughter, and more than free with his sharp opinions regarding Sam's lack of sense for getting himself into such a pickle in the first place.
Or what if it were Rosie? Out to feed the chickens, and catching an eyeful of Sam instead. Ah, he might well never look her in the face again. When she ran screaming from the barn, the whole family would come running. Farmer Cotton might well order them wed on the spot, to save his daughter shame.
Tom or Jolly or any of the other lads would be another story. Sam blushed at the very notion of all they might find to say. The stories they would tell. The endless laughs and nudges. The wicked innuendos.
Acht, no matter who it was who found him, there'd be no living down the shame. Never mind the prank was not of his making, he was the one tongues would wag over. No doubt of that.
Sam gave a little growl deep in his throat, and let thoughts of revenge take him once again.
So engrossed was he in this reverie, that at first he did not hear the creak of the old barn door.
Soft footsteps padded across the straw littered floor. The low moan of a protesting floorboard alerted Sam to the presence of another. Someone was in the barn.
Sam's head came up and sharply he turned his face towards the source of the sound. Unconsciously, he drew himself up to his full height, bracing himself for what would follow.
Closer... closer... and then the footsteps halted. Silence... save for Sam's uneasy breathing, and the light breath of the other.
"Oh, Sam," a familiar voice sighed.
And Sam sagged with relief. No teasing words, no scoldings, no gossiping tongue from this most welcome rescuer. It was Mr. Frodo. He was safe.
It was beautiful weather for haying, not a cloud was in the sky. Frodo stood in his front garden and sipped on a steaming mug of peppermint tea while he admired an exceptionally vibrant cluster of nodding blossoms. Lovely flowers, really lovely. Though he had no idea what they were called. Sam would know. Sam was on a first name basis with every plant that grew in the garden. But Sam was gone, called out to the Cottons' farm.
It was going to be a long and lonely day.
Frodo sighed, and wandered down the path towards The Row. Idly he leaned upon the gatepost and considered what he might do to while away the hours. It was far too fair a day to shut himself up in his study. Perhaps a walk down to the market? Perhaps some new books had arrived? He brightened at the thought.
Quickly he returned to his smial to fetch a few coins and a basket. Half-filled mug abandoned on the kitchen table, he sauntered out the door and joined in the steady stream of like-minded hobbits heading for the marketplace.
After passing a most pleasant hour in various shops, Frodo decided to take an early lunch at the Green Dragon before heading back for home. The pub was crowded, as it always was. But Rose Cotton was not at her usual post behind the bar. Two other girls whisked drinks and food to the eager patrons. Frodo placed his order and leaned back in his chair.
Raucous laughter came from a table just across the aisle from his. Frodo frowned. Toby Bracegirdle, Jon Proudfoot and Arni Deepwell. Ne'er-do-wells, the lot of them. Drunk already, this early in the day, and clearly out to make some trouble for someone. Frodo's ears perked up as he heard Arni mutter "Sam Gamgee". Shushed giggles and sharp whispers followed mention of the name. Toby shot a glance at Frodo, and his sly grin widened. With his blackened eyes he looked like a demented raccoon. Jon didn't look much better. Arni had an ice pack held to his swollen nose.
The arrival of the serving lass blocked the unsavoury trio from his sight.
"Miss. Bulger," Frodo said uneasily. "have those lads been causing you mischief?"
Lilac Bulger sniffed disdainfully. "Them lot are always causing trouble. I'd be right glad if Rosie were here. She keeps 'em mindin' their manners."
"It's her day off, then?" Frodo questioned.
"Oh, aye, that it is. She and her family headed off early this morning. Visitin' her cousins out South Farthing way."
"No," Frodo interrupted, "That can't be right. They're haying today. Out at the Cottons'."
"No, sir, and that they ain't. They won't be back till--"
But Frodo didn't stay to hear the rest of her reply, he was already up and on his way out the door, lunch and shopping treasures forgotten.
Lilac shrugged and gathered up the parcels. She'd just put them behind the bar now for safekeeping. Maybe a coin or two in thanks would come her way when that Mad Baggins recalled he'd left them all behind.
"Bring us another round, love," Toby hollered.
Lilac rolled her eyes.
Even cutting across country it took the better part of an hour to reach the Cottons' farm. No one answered Frodo's brisk knock on the door. The door itself was locked, the windows shut. No tables stood waiting, laden with food to feed a starving work crew. Tall grass waved and rippled in the surrounding fields; tall, but not yet tall enough to cut.
No one was here.
But where was Sam? He had plainly said he was bound for the Cottons'. Had he come and gone? Had he meant he was to feed the animals while the Cottons were away? Perhaps that was it. Perhaps Frodo had mistakenly assumed the hay Sam had spoken of was for harvesting rather than feeding. Still, since he was here, he'd just check the outbuildings before he headed back home.
The barn door creaked a bit on its hinges as he slipped it open. It was eerily quiet inside, no munching of hay or shifting of hooves. The first few stalls were empty, clearly the ponies had been turned out in the field to forage for a day or so. Probably the milk cows were lodged with a willing neighbour.
Frodo lightly padded across the soft layer of straw on the floor, fighting back a sneeze at the dust his passage stirred. The low moan of a protesting floorboard under his foot was echoed by an answering creak of floorboards a few stalls down.
Someone was here after all.
Frodo opened his mouth to call for Sam, but quickly closed it. Something about this strange state of affairs did not set right with him. Cautiously, he approached the open stall door and peered inside.
There was Sam. Bound and gagged and blindfolded, but clearly alert to Frodo's silent presence, and wary of it.
I ought to say something, Frodo thought. I really ought to reassure him.
But somehow the words just wouldn't come. Sam. It was Sam. But a Sam as Frodo had never before seen him. Sweat glistened on his bronzed skin, trickling down the clearly defined contours of his torso. Muscles rippled in his legs and arms. Sam was next to naked, defenseless, blind; but he was not defeated. His head was up, his body tensed to fight should the need arise. He was magnificent. Amazing. He was a sculpture brought to life by a maestro's hand. He was every dream Frodo had ever had come true.
"Oh, Sam," Frodo sighed, and hastened forward to his rescue.
Sam felt his master quickly brushing past him. Gentle fingers plucked at the knot of the first handkerchief, the one across his mouth.
"Sorry," Frodo murmured, as he inadvertently pulled Sam's tangled hair. The knot slipped free, and the hated cloth was carefully peeled away. "Are you all right, Sam?" Frodo said. "Did they hurt you?"
"I'm fine, Mr. Frodo," Sam croaked.
Frodo's fingers rustled through Sam's hair, nimbly picking at the second handkerchief's knot. Finally, the cloth fell away. Sam blinked, dazed eyes slowly adapting to bright sunlight. Frodo slipped beneath Sam's right arm and tugged futilely at the knot binding that wrist.
"I'll need a knife," he said. "It's pulled too tight. Can you hold on a little longer, Sam? There must be something sharp about. I'll be right back."
"Sir, please, sir... could you bring some water, too?"
"Of course, I should have thought. I'm sorry, Sam."
"Not for you to be sorry, Mr. Frodo. It's them as left me here that best be sorry."
Frodo nodded and quickly trotted from the stall. The water was easy to find; the knife took longer. The best he could do was an old carving knife, rusted and with a broken tip. But it should do the trick.
Carefully he carried a bucket of water back with him to the stall and set it down close to hand. A quick scoop with the dipper he had borrowed from the well, and he stepped up next to Sam to hold the brimming cup to his lips. Sam drank greedily, trickles of water dribbling down his chin and trailing down his chest.
Frodo's eyes followed the water's downward path in utter fascination. He tilted the dipper a little farther so even more water spilled and flowed down... down...
Frodo stood close, so close that Sam could feel the heat rising up off his slender body. He could smell the good clean scent of soap, the mint tea that Frodo had sipped at second breakfast. Sam swallowed, and told himself not to be so foolish. He was being rescued here, given aid, nothing more.
Why then did his heart beat a little faster? Did Frodo notice? Sam's glance flickered to Frodo's face. His master's eyes had turned a smoky shade of blue-grey. His cheeks were flushed. His gaze, oh sweet Lady, his gaze was traveling down... down to where Sam's naughty thoughts were taking corporeal form.
There was no way a scrap of thin linen could conceal Sam's burgeoning erection. Oh, Frodo would see! He must have seen!
Frodo's eyes slowly traveled back up Sam's furiously blushing body and focused on his widening, sea-green eyes. The pink tip of a tongue slipped out to wet Frodo's lips. Sam licked his own lips nervously.
The dipper clattered to the floor.
Oh... Oh... Frodo thought helplessly. Think of the possibilities. I could touch him. I could touch him anywhere. I could...
Mind reeling, Frodo spun away. The knife. Must get the knife. Must set Sam free... before... before I... Quickly he bent to pick up the knife, fingers shaking madly as he clasped the hilt and turned to press the blade to the rope holding Sam's left arm.
A soft breath ghosted past Frodo's ear and he shivered.
"No." Sam said.
Frodo froze. No? No, what? What was Sam saying? Slowly he turned his head until their gazes locked once more.
"Master," Sam murmured, the word a sigh, a caress, an invitation.
Oh, never had he heard a word so sweetly spoken. Frodo's heart thrummed in his breast, his stomach clenched and rolled on a rising tide of disbelief and wonder.
"Master," Sam repeated softly, his pose submissive, his eyes full of desire. "Frodo," he breathed.
And just as easily as that Frodo was the one imprisoned, trapped by a wave of love and longing so profound that it brought tears to his eyes. The knife joined the dipper on the floor, forgotten. With a tiny whimper of surrender, Frodo wrapped Sam in his arms and pressed his cheek to Sam's pounding heart. His own heart raced in reply. Their rhythms were the same.
"Frodo," Sam said again, his tone more urgent this time.
And Frodo lifted up his head and carefully brought their mouths together. His trembling hands stole up to frame Sam's face, fingers gently twining in gold curls as they melted into each other. Long, slow, wet slide of tongue on tongue... teasing nibbles of teeth on lips... deep, chorusing moans...
"Touch me," Sam whispered into the sweet perfection of Frodo's open-mouthed, eager kisses. "Oh, touch me. Please?"
A final, lingering kiss and they parted. Frodo was panting heavily, a little smile quirking the corner of his kiss-swollen lips. A moment passed that seemed to last forever, as he stood there, head tilted consideringly. Abruptly, he bent to pick up one of the discarded handkerchiefs, and plunged it deep into the cold well-water.
And Frodo began to touch his Samwise then. Long, leisurely swoops of the sopping wet cloth skittered across Sam's skin. Sam shivered and closed his eyes. A pause. The wet smack of the cloth dipping back into the bucket sounded. Cold cloth and colder water traveled slowly from wrist to elbow to shoulder. Another plunge of cloth. Another touch. And yet another.
Sam moaned. Perfect.. Oh, so perfect. Naught could compare with this. Naught. He could stay like this forever. Forever! Or so he thought until...
Warm lips replaced cold cloth. Frodo started at the base of Sam's neck, nibbled out towards the tip of a collarbone, followed the arch of the ribcage back and down and around until his mouth closed on a nipple and he sucked upon it hungrily.
This time Sam's moan was louder, sharper. He felt the curve of Frodo's mouth as he smiled. Then slowly those lips were traveling across to the other nipple; teeth lightly bit the nub of flesh, a quick tongue soothed the sting away. And now as Frodo nursed at Sam's breast, his hands began to roam. Finding their way from shoulder to waist and on to outer thigh. Frodo released the nipple and slid himself up Sam's body to capture his mouth once more. Hands stole around to stroke Sam's broad back, inched slowly down until they brazenly cupped Sam's ass and pulled his hips tight up against Frodo's own.
With a ragged gasp they broke the kiss and Frodo suddenly jerked Sam's hips forward, pressing him still tighter to his centre.
Yes! Sam noted in fierce, joyful wonder. Frodo was hard too. He could feel the throb of his erection through the layers of cloth separating their flesh.
Slowly, surely, Frodo began to grind their groins together.
Sam's eyes shot open and fastened on Frodo's face. Light beads of perspiration dotted his master's brow, his mouth was open slightly, head tilted back a little, baring the long line of his neck. A deep red flush began at his shirt collar, traveled up to spread and blossom on his cheeks. And his eyes... oh, his eyes defied description. Sam had never seen them turn that particular shade before. It put him in mind of a visit he'd made to the smithy's shop some years ago. He had glanced deep into the forge's very core, had seen a flame so pure a blue it hurt his eyes.
That flame was looking at him now.
Had Sam not been so securely restrained, he would have fallen. As it was, he felt his knees wobble and buckle. But Frodo held him steady. Frodo would not let him fall. Frodo... Frodo was...
Frodo was slithering down his body now, sinking down until he rested on his knees before Sam. His lips moved against Sam's underlinens, nose nuzzling into the fabric, wet from the sponge bath and Sam's weeping erection. His hands crept up between Sam's parted legs, caressed the crevice there, cupped his aching stones.
"Unngh," Sam managed. It was an unbearable delight. He was tucked in too tight, unable to fully engorge. Trapped.
A gentle hand reached in though the opening of his linens; kindly fingers drew out Sam's cock and firmly wrapped themselves about it. The blood swept from Sam's brain in a dizzying rush, flooding to his groin in frantic need.
But surely Frodo wouldn't? he thought dimly. Surely he wouldn't want to... wouldn't dare...
The warmth of Frodo's mouth welcomed Sam home.
The need to thrust was overpowering, but Sam was held fast by the ropes that bound him, unable to do more than rock in place a bit and quiver and beg.
"Please, more. Like that. Oh, yes, oh yes!" he cried.
And Frodo willingly supplied the motion Sam was denied. Up Sam's rigid shaft his mouth glided, tongue teasing at the head of Sam's cock, before wetly sliding back down. Frodo's cheeks hollowed with the suction, an almost purr vibrating deep in his throat. Hands joined mouth in stroking... caressing... urging...
"Frodo," Sam cried in warning.
Frodo moaned, and suckled harder... deeper... faster... His eyes were enormous now, firmly fastened on Sam's face, waiting, no, commanding.
As ever, Sam obeyed. He fell into those eyes, his cock pulsing out his seed in slow steady waves of overpowering joy. Frodo rode out those waves, then slowly leaned his face against Sam's belly and nuzzled there contentedly.
"I have to touch you," Sam whimpered. "I have to touch you, Frodo. Let me... oh, let me... please?"
A final press of lips to sweat-slicked flesh, and Frodo nodded. He scrambled for the knife and quickly sawed through the ropes that bound Sam's ankles. Then he rose and freed Sam's right arm. But before Frodo could shift his attention to Sam's left hand, he found himself clasped in a tight embrace. Sam hugged his master to his breast, ignoring the pins and needles that greeted this too quick move. Eagerly he sought Frodo's mouth, tasting the musk of his own seed upon Frodo's tongue. Abruptly, Frodo surged forward, tumbling them both off balance, and crashing Sam back against the stall's rough wall. His hungry kisses ravaged Sam's mouth as he writhed and bucked against him, seeking his own relief.
"Love, oh love," Sam groaned. " I can't manage this one-handed. You're still dressed and I want to touch you proper-like. You have to let me go."
Frodo's head lifted and he smiled happily. "Oh, no," he said, "Now that I have you, Sam, I don't mean to ever set you free."
Sam's laughter only lasted as long as it took for Frodo to claim his lips once more.
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