West of the Moon

A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive



The Root of the Matter
Sam tries a little herbal persuasion on his master.
Author: Mariole
Rating: NC-17


This story was written for the hobbit_smut Livejournal Community "Absinthe Makes the Heart Grow Fonder" Challenge.

Sam knelt beside the furrow, coaxing the ripe turnips from the soil one by one, and massaging his master in his mind.

Mr. Frodo would stand here, just in front of Sam, facing away. This was Sam's fantasy, so he planted Mr. Frodo with one leg to either side of the row of turnips, opening up that attractive region between his legs. His master would be wearing his soft felt breeks, the color of calfskin--the ones that from a distance made it seem almost as if he had on no trousers at all. Sam had nearly snapped his neck more'n once, doing a double-take when his master wore that outfit.

So, he'd be wearing the calfskin breeks, and standing over Sam. Sam would flatten his palms against the inside of his master's thighs, one hand just above each knee. Then he would slide the hands up. The soft cloth would slip under Sam's palms, yielding to his touch, while the flesh below would remain taut and firm. (Sam grew a little taut himself, thinking on it.)

Then he'd reach that most interesting curve at the top of the thigh. His hands, now near touching each other, would push the fabric next to Mr. Frodo's body, outlining the very soft package that nestled between those straddled legs. Sam would move his fingers, so--and Mr. Frodo would groan, and move his legs farther apart. (Sam found he needed to make some adjustments himself, at this time.)

Then Sam would tease at the crease between those compelling mounds, tickling a finger towards the hidden pucker, finding it unerringly through the cloth. With a light touch, he would tease it. Frodo would bend forward, moaning, widening his legs to grant better access. Sam would continue to stroke and tease, whilst his other hand would sneak past the soft bulge to find what lay long and rigid on the other side. His palm would slide along it--then close upon it. Mr. Frodo would gasp, shuddering as Sam's fingers discovered the shape of him, from the thickness of his shaft to the sensitive, sloping tip. Unable to help himself, Mr. Frodo would pump slowly into Sam's fist, whilst his pucker would slide slowly back and forth past Sam's questing fingertip--

The earth in front of Sam suddenly popped free in a miniature explosion, spattering clumps of soil over Sam's breeks and hair. Sam snorted and shook his head, brushing off his clothes with his free hand. Ninnyhammer. He'd got to thinking so hard on his fantasy, he'd gotten careless with the trowel. Now a clot of earth lay upended before him, the naked ends of the turnip roots curling into the air, stiff as the appendage in the front of Sam's trousers that was clamoring for a return to his fantasy, as quick as may be.

Sam growled, then reached for the earth-coated blot to shake off the soil. He knocked it against the trowel, then took another look as the soil fell away.

There was a turnip in there all right, but also... Sam stared. He'd never seen a plant of this type afore, though he'd heard tell of 'em. He'd never quite believed they existed, yet here one was, staring him shamelessly in the face.

Sam set the turnip in the basket next the others, then examined the smaller root that had come up with it. It were turnip-colored, though one quarter of the size, and its shape--

Sam swallowed, and smoothed away the clinging earth. Its shape mirrored quite startlingly what Sam had been caressing in his mind. A tuft of stringy leaves sprung from the cap of it. Sam held it up by this tuft, while he traced the shape of the root below. Two round bulbs hung from the cap, looking like just what you might expect them to look like. Between them, a long thick root arched up in a swollen curve. It looked exactly... exactly--

Sam glanced round, and quickly lowered the root. It was just as the old gammers had said. "Virile root" was the polite name for it. The others were more colorful: stiffrod, randyroot, fuckflower. Sam had listened with only half a mind, thinking it were but a tale. But now, knowing it weren't, the rest of the lore came flooding back.

"One sip of tea laced with happyshaft," declared old Widow Rumble, "and you won't be spending a lonely evening!"

"Have them nibble on it anywhere," avowed Gammer Bolger, "and they'll be eating out of your hand--and everywhere else, besides. The best part is--they won't remember aught the next day. So's there's no awkward feelings to manage on the morn."

Now Sam held one of the rare plants--and mayhap the answer to his dreams--in his hand. Thoughts tumbled over one another, chaotic as puppies in a basket.

Well, there were naught for it. Sam stood abruptly, twitched his breeks into a more concealing drape, and brushed the soil from his knees. He turned and headed straight down the Hill.

Sam needed to do some baking.


Sam arranged the brownies on his best saucer. They were still moist, and wanted to crumble into heaps of steaming cake, but he'd been too impatient to let them cool thoroughly before cutting them into squares. Carefully, he nudged them into place one by one: six medium-sized brownies. He'd have made a larger batch, but he wanted the concentration of the root to be high. Doubtless the minced root is what made the brownies so moist. Sam pushed one of the outer ones closer to the center of the dish, and puffed on his finger to cool it. No matter. This lot would be cool enough, when he reached the top of the Hill. Then the real heat would begin!

Just at that moment, the door banged open, and a feminine chatter came into the front room. Sam swore. He'd hoped his sisters would not return from Hobbiton so soon. But clearly, his baking had taken just long enough for them to return with the marketing.

Sam reached for the plate--but it was too warm to handle comfortably. Sam released the dish immediately, waving his hand in the air as his two oldest sisters came in.

The eldest, Daisy, set down her bundle quickly, sniffing the air. Beside her, May did the same. Daisy's wandering eye lit upon the plate of brownies, and she smiled. "Sam! What have you been baking for us?"

"Nothing!" Sam grumbled, cross over being discovered. "These are for the master."

May looked disappointed. "I suppose you made them because Master Pippin is stopping."

Sam blanched. "Master Pippin is stopping at Bag End?"

"Mr. Frodo told us his own self, earlier today." Daisy edged closer to the table where the brownies sat. "That's where Marigold is now, bringing the extra marketing up the Hill."

"Master Pippin is stopping tonight?" Sam saw his plans crumbling round him, much like those too-moist brownies.

"Tomorrow," corrected Daisy. She darted out a hand to snitch a piece of brownie. Sam, ready for it, slapped her wrist.

"No!" He glared, whilst Daisy frowned. "Those are for the master, I tell ye!"

"Well, why'd you make such a small batch?" Daisy pouted, rubbing her wrist. "You know we all love your sweets."

"There was only enough ingredients for a small batch," said Sam, partly truthfully.

"Then will you make us more tonight?" May pleaded.

"We'll see," said Sam. With luck, he wouldn't make it home tonight--but there was no sense in saying that aloud.

Daisy set her bag on the table with an irritated thump. "Well, if you won't bake for us, you might as well help us put away this marketing."

"Oh, no, you don't!" Sam took one of each of his sisters' elbows, and guided them briskly to the back door. "You're just waiting for when my back is turned, so's you can sneak a treat for yourself!"

May stumbled along, bewildered. "Sam, what's gotten into you? Surely the master won't miss one brownie?"

"We'll share it," argued Daisy. "No one will ever know we did! If you're worried about the number, just cut one of the larger pieces in half."

It weren't the number of brownies that had Sam worried--it was the possible effect. He hadn't any clear idea of what the root might do to a body, and he had no desire to find out by seeing what happened to his sisters. He shuddered over the possibilities, each idea more horrifying than the last.

"I will put away the marketing," Sam announced, dragging them both onto the back step. "You will take down the washing. It's dry by now, and the afternoon's getting on."

Daisy glowered. "Samwise Gamgee, I've half a mind to box your ears! Who do you think you are, telling us what to do?"

"I'm the one what's baked a special treat for the master, and I won't have you go eating up my hard work!"

For a moment, Sam thought he might receive that clout on the ear. Then Daisy's anger went cool. Haughtily, she turned towards the washing. "Come, May. Let us leave Sam to his precious baking--may he choke on it!"

For her part, May gave Sam an annoyed look, then followed her older sister. Sam watched them move across the small yard, and heaved a sigh of relief.

He let himself back into the smial, and walked up the passage. The bags of marketing lay just where the girls had left them. Sam opened the nearest sack, when he heard the distinct thump of the front door closing. Quickly, he looked towards the brownies, to put them out of sight. He froze.

There were only four brownies on the plate.

Sam dropped the bag and made a dash for the front door. He burst into the front room, to see Marigold just stepping away from the door.

Terror seized his heart. "Where are they?" he babbled. If Marigold had eaten two...

His younger sister blinked at him. "Where are who?"

"The brownies! The brownies I'd baked for the master!"

Marigold clapped a hand to her mouth. "Oh, I'm sorry, Sam! I had no idea those were meant for the master."

Sam grew frantic. Mayhap he could get her to vomit...

"We naturally assumed the dessert was for us."

"Us?" Sam's heart pounded.

"The Gaffer and me, when we come in just now. As there seemed to be one extra, he thought he'd take his and the extra down to Widow Rumble. She's been awful helpful with the darning lately."

Sam swallowed. "The Gaffer..." Oh, dear. He hoped the Widow Rumble liked his old Gaffer as well as Sam thought she did, for they were like to know each other a whole lot better afore the evening were through.

"I'm sorry, Sam." Marigold looked sincere. "But it will be all right, won't it? You still have four left for Bag End."

Sam thought furiously. If he dashed down the road now, he might be able to stop his Gaffer, but his concern would look peculiar. It weren't as if Sam could bring the brownies to his master after they'd been handled; certainly, his Gaffer wouldn't think it right. Any odd behavior on Sam's part might lead his Gaffer to inspect the brownies more closely--and if Sam had heard of virile root, his Gaffer surely would have. Old Widow Rumble absolutely did, that Sam knew. Yet he must do something.

He took Mari's hand. "Mari, I must talk to the Gaffer afore he goes. Will you be so good as to put away the marketing, and stand guard over the brownies? The master is depending on them for Master Pippin tomorrow."

"Of course, Sam." She followed him obligingly to the kitchen. "If the--oh!"

Mari went still upon entering the kitchen. Sam followed her gaze, and stopped short.

There were now only two brownies on the plate.

Mari looked sad. "It seems that Daisy and May thought the treat was for us, as well."

Sam grew furious. "I told them..." He bottled it up. He must go after them, as quick as possible. "Mari, would you put this plate somewhere out of the way? And please," he nearly wailed, "don't eat any."

Mari smiled. "Of course I won't, if you wish it. But you must make something for us later."

"I will, I will! I promise. Thank you, Mari." With that, Sam dashed for the back door.

The sight that greeted him brought back his anger full bore. Only one shirt had been unpegged from the line. The rest of the washing hung as it had been, with no sisters in sight. Sam did a slow burn. It was as he'd thought. Daisy and May, resenting his high-handed tone, had deliberately sneaked back in and stolen a brownie when he was in the other room. Who knew where they might be now, or what they might be doing. Still, Sam couldn't leave them on their own.

Forced to choose between parties, he decided he must go after his sisters. Their potential for mischief was always high; look how they had deliberately ignored his request! The Gaffer and dear Widow Rumble must fend for themselves, and good luck to 'em. Sam opened the back gate and looked about, hoping to catch a glimpse of a skirt in the long shadows of the late afternoon.

They would head towards the stream. The trees grew tall and leafy all along its course. They need only hide amongst the stems, and Sam wouldn't be able to find them quickly, not until they'd had their snack. Well, he must try. Grimly, Sam set out at a brisk pace. After five minutes, he found exactly what he'd expected to find: nothing. Wherever his sisters had gone, they'd had time enough to put those cakes somewhere Sam was sure he would live to regret.

Crestfallen, he returned to the smial. All was quiet within; certainly May and Daisy had not come home. He continued to the kitchen, to find Mari fixing supper. She turned towards him with an anxious smile. "Did you see Daisy?"

Sam shook his head, and sank onto the bench. "Not a hair. Why?"

"I hope it's all right. You did say the brownies were for Mr. Frodo."

Sam's unease stirred afresh. "What happened?"

"Daisy came in, not five minutes ago. She were giggling." Mari gave Sam a curious look.

Sam gripped the edge of the table. Daisy giggling 'most always meant bad news for someone--usually Mari and Sam. "Yes?"

"She said she and May had noticed Mr. Frodo walking in the garden. She felt guilty over eating one of his brownies, and wanted to bring one to him herself--"

"Mercy!" Sam bolted from the table as sharp as if he'd been thrown from a pony. He burst out the back door and tore up the Hill.

Walking in the garden, she'd said. It might be true; the master did like his afternoon walks. Or it might merely be Daisy's ruse to obtain another brownie for herself. Either way, Sam must make certain. She were giggling, which certainly weren't her mood when Sam had left her. Mayhap she was in spirits because of seeming to pull one over on Sam, or mayhap the virile root was working already. He wished he knew more about it. Hurriedly, he let himself in the lower gate to Mr. Frodo's grounds, and started anxiously to search the garden.

It was the voices that led him to them. A high burst of giggles was followed by a low, masculine murmur. Sam would recognize that voice anywhere. Sam gulped. Keeping to the cover of the bushes, he crept towards the sound.

They were lying in a grassy patch surrounded by flowerbeds. Mr. Frodo sat in the middle, with a sister reclining upon either side. May and Daisy each sat with her head leaning against one of Mr. Frodo's shoulders. They propped themselves up with one hand, whilst the other explored Mr. Frodo's chest, trailing fingers up and down his paisley waistcoat, and occasionally popping a button free.

Mr. Frodo didn't seem to mind. He sat with a sappy smile on his face, blinking and licking his lips. "Oh, you were so right. It was a most excellent brownie. Truly, I have never tasted one that was so... satisfying."

"And yet left you hungry for more?" breathed Daisy. She lifted her head, and tickled the lobe of his ear with her tongue.

Mr. Frodo closed his eyes. Parting his lips, he let his head tip back. Stars, he was beautiful. Sam smothered a whimper.

"So... hungry," whispered May. Her hand dipped lower. Sam watched the hand's progress, transfixed, as it descended past the waistcoat, over the buttons, and began to fondle Mr. Frodo's... lap.

Sam sprang instantly to hardness. Never mind that this was May; he liked her well enough if she let him be, and didn't pester him. But he could not look at what her hand was doing, or anyone's hand might be doing there--stroking slowly, white against the dark cloth of Mr. Frodo's breeks--without considering what it might feel like. Sam gulped. He couldn't help but imagine what Mr. Frodo might be feeling--what Sam might have been feeling, had his sisters not been so contrary and fouled all his plans!

For his part, Mr. Frodo did nothing other than to turn his head, and take in Daisy's mouth for a long, slow kiss.

Sam crouched lower. If there had been any question in his mind afore, it were gone now. Clearly, Mr. Frodo must be drugged. No sane hobbit would go a-kissing Daisy, particularly when she had that look on her face. And Mr. Frodo had always treated his sisters proper, with respect. In the normal way, he wouldn't go throwing that history to the wind, twining tongues with one Gamgee lass, whilst the other groped about his lap.

Glory, now May was unfastening Mr. Frodo's trousers! He kept on kissing Daisy, but spread his legs wider. Without thinking, Sam's hand sprang to his own lap, as May lifted the cloth away.

Now think, Sam Gamgee, while you still can! Mr. Frodo clearly weren't himself. Neither were Sam's older sisters, although some might argue as this was an improvement. But whatever had occurred, all three seemed intent on one thing. And May were lifting that thing right now out of Mr. Frodo's trousers. Sam caught an uncanny resemblance to the virile root, afore that proud specimen disappeared into May's enthusiastic mouth.

Mr. Frodo jerked at the contact, then relaxed. Slowly, still kissing Daisy, he sank back upon the grass. Sam were treated to a view not unlike his fantasy, looking up between Mr. Frodo's legs, catching a glimpse of the stiff pillar that rose there. Only Sam had never imagined May into the picture. No matter; he did his best to look around her. Oh, that did look good. He bit his lip.

Sam clutched himself, and tried to think. One of the properties of virile root was supposed to be that the one what took it would remember naught on the morrow. Sam could only hope it was true. Mr. Frodo would be mighty ashamed if he remembered... well, pushing Daisy's bodice aside, for instance, as he was doing now. Daisy were rather plump in that area, as Mr. Frodo seemed happy to notice. He went after her with both hands, sucking eagerly. May were going full out at the other end, her dark curls getting in the way of Sam's object of interest, but her actions making very clear just how interesting that object were.

Sam could have sobbed. This mess was his fault, but it was far too late to stop it now. Still, his duty was plain. With none of these three their normal selves, Sam must watch them through to the end. Who knows what harm might come to them, if they were left to wander on their own in this altered state? Besides, Sam had no idea of dosage. How long might it take for the effects to wear off? They shouldn't be left vulnerable to their whims, all unguarded.

Mr. Frodo, who'd been sucking greedily, suddenly gasped. He lifted his head away from Daisy's breast. His eyes were shut, his breathing rapid. May's hand were doing something very fast just below her mouth; the slick, wet noises carried even to where Sam hid in the bushes. Mr. Frodo slowly tipped back his head, then shuddered. A cry of pure delight burst from his lips.

Save him. Sam would be seeing that face in his dreams--he could hope. He pumped himself urgently, savoring every gesture of Mr. Frodo's release. Ah, he could have cried! Here he were, twenty feet from his heart's desire, but he would get no nearer tonight.

Well, he must do what he must. Sam applied himself diligently to watching.


"I feel sick," Daisy grumbled, over her morning tea. She slumped upon a fist, her knotted hair in wild disarray.

Across the table from her, May slumped with her head between her hands. "What happened?" she murmured to the table.

Sam neglected to fill them in. What had in fact happened was astonishing. Mr. Frodo just... kept going. After May brought him off with her mouth, he tupped Daisy, then he tupped May, then he tupped Daisy from behind, then he tupped May with her sitting on his lap. All of this was accompanied by such sighing and groping and licking, that Sam quite wore himself out. True, he'd found release for himself a time or two (all right, two)--but how could he help it, with Mr. Frodo jutting up so slick and proud the way he was, with lust clouding his eyes and softening his lips? Oh, that those looks could have been for Sam!

Finally, the threesome fell into a contented stupor. It was full night by then. May and Daisy staggered down the Hill, where the only thing what kept them from getting a severe scolding was the fact that their Gaffer was still out. Sam trailed a weaving Mr. Frodo to his door, just to make sure he got in safe. By the time he got home, his older sisters were abed. Mari gave him a sour look as she opened the door.

"And what's your excuse for missing supper?" she demanded.

"I were looking for Daisy and May," Sam answered.

"I don't think they meant to be found. Not by the state of their wardrobe."

Sam had sighed mournfully over his beautiful plan going so dreadfully wrong. As usual, Mari picked right up on his mood.

"You come in, Sam," she said more kindly. "Have a bite of supper. I think the Gaffer means to dine with the Widow Rumble tonight."

"I'm sure he already has," Sam mumbled.

He went through his supper hardly tasting it, then threw himself onto his bed. All night he dreamt of Mr. Frodo's white bum a-pumping in the air, the clenching of his muscles when he came, the way his eyebrows drew together when he gasped at the moment of climax. By the time morning dawned, he was feeling as tumbled as his older sisters.

Mari was sharp with the lot of them. "It's a good thing the Gaffer ain't here to see this." She set down a bowl of porridge so hard that May and Daisy jumped. "You've a nerve--overdoing the sherry or whatever you did, and coming home rumpled as an unmade bed!"

"I didn't overdo--ow--the sherry," May groaned. "I don't know what I did."

"Nor I," Daisy said. "The last thing I remember was tasting that very fine brownie of Sam's. And then... I think..." She rubbed her eyes. "Oh, I don't really remember."

Marigold tutted. "Well, you're a very sorry pair, the both of you."

Sam's ears burned, but he couldn't help asking, "You remember naught after tasting the brownie? Naught at all?"

"I remember feeling very... well," Daisy halted, flustered. "It ain't your place to know how I was feeling."

Mari muttered, "You don't need to say, since we seen it for ourselves."

"It was like a dream, almost," said May, less testy than her sister. "But I can't say if it were a dream, or..."

Daisy looked at May in alarm. "It couldn't be real... could it?"

May met Daisy's eyes, then flushed the deepest red Sam had ever seen on her--close to what was on his own face, most like.

Their silence had done what their protests did not. Marigold grew still, looking from one to the other of them with concern. "You really don't remember?"

May looked miserable. "No! Just... well, I hope I ain't remembering aught but a dream, or I'll never show my face on the Hill again."

"The Hill!" Marigold sat up. "You don't mean... the master?"

"I'm sure it was a dream," Daisy wailed into her hands. "He's handsome, and must have been on my mind. We'd sneaked into the garden to have our treat..."

"He weren't really there," worried May. "We must have imagined it!"

Marigold stared, then looked at Sam. In a hushed voice, she said, "It's got to be the brownies."

Sometimes Sam hated having a quick-witted sister. He had better think of an answer, quick. Still feeling his face burning, he rose. "I must have put somewhat wrong in the recipe."

"You, Sam?" Mari looked alarmed. "I find that unlikely."

"Mayhap the ingredients went bad. It's been awful warm out." Sam moved towards the cupboard where Mari had hidden the last brownie. "In any case, it ain't worth taking the risk." He opened the door, and took out a small jar. Mari had shut it tightly to keep the brownie fresh. He hefted the jar. "I'll take this outside. There's no use in anyone else getting bellyache."

"It weren't exactly a... belly ache," muttered Daisy, rubbing her temples.

"Never you mind. It surely ain't fit for the master, that's the main thing. That's why I ain't angry at you for stealing a bite, even after I told you not to. I might have put in something bad by mistake. I'm sorry you're ill, but better you'n the master, if you don't mind my saying. In any case, you brought it on yourself."

Daisy's answer was a groan. May had sunken again between her hands. Only Mari looked at him keenly, as if trying to sort the matter out.

Sam nodded at the jar in his hand. "I'll bury this somewhere an animal won't get it," he told her. "Then I'll get myself straight to work."

"You've hardly had a bite, Sam," Mari protested.

"No matter. I'm well enough. I'll see you for dinner."

Sam got out of the smial as quickly as he might. The morning was still young, though it were later far than his usual starting time. All those dreams, not to mention his pre-dream activity, had made him sleep in.

Sam blushed, but his resolve was firm. He directed his steps up the Hill.

Five times. Mr. Frodo had gone five times last night. Sam played it over and over again in his mind. Clearly, the virile root needn't be as concentrated as Sam had made it. But there was naught Sam could do about it now; all he had left was baked into this remaining brownie. The trick would be getting Mr. Frodo to eat it.

He sorted out what he'd do. He'd come into the smial, and lay the fire. Like as naught, Mr. Frodo was still abed, if his head ached as fierce as his sisters'. Sam would come in, and prepare the tea, and put the brownie on a plate. He'd have to make up some sort of story as to why Daisy and May were acting peculiar last night. The master would remember that, for he'd met them afore they gave him the brownie.

Mr. Frodo would come in with his hair charmingly awry. "Oh, blessed Sam," he would say. "You've made me tea."

And Sam would say, "There's a peculiar giddiness sweeping the village, sir. It's like to a cold, but all it does is give a body a powerful headache and very odd dreams. You look done in, sir. Mayhap you might have caught a sniff of it? Here, sir. I made a little something for you. You'll feel more yourself after you've had a bite."

And Mr. Frodo would eat the brownie. And whether they went four times, or three, or only two (given how tuckered Mr. Frodo must be from the night afore)--well, there would still be something there for Sam. Sam smiled, his member rising in happy anticipation. Afterwards, Mr. Frodo would think that he'd just had another bout of the flu. But Sam would remember this morning with pleasure the whole of his days.

Eagerly, he approached the front door of the smial. Normally, he'd walk round to the rear, but there was no time to waste. Master Pippin was expected that day, and Sam wanted to get all his tumblings in afore that gentlehobbit put in an appearance. It weren't a big risk. Master Pippin by rule was an even later riser than his master, and he had all the distance from Tuckborough to come. Surely Sam could squeeze in several bouts of ecstasy afore then. No good waiting until Master Pippin's visit were over; the brownie wouldn't keep. There was no telling when or if Sam might find another root. This jar in his hand held Sam's one chance of bedding the hobbit he most desired, and he didn't intend to waste it.

Upon Bag End's front doorstep, he paused. For the first time, it sank in what he was intending to do: drug his master, and take advantage of him. Callous as that sounded, there would be no harm done--or would there? Could Sam ever again be easy, if he had the memory of his master's brilliant eyes drifting closed, his fine jaw slacking in bliss, as his body furiously sought release in the hot depths of Sam's? How would it be, if Sam could remember Mr. Frodo's grunts of pleasure, the wet, slapping sounds of their lovemaking, and Mr. Frodo would not? Wouldn't that be in some ways worse, knowing what was possible, but being denied it forever?

Slowly, Sam opened the jar, and tipped the brownie into his hand. It was slightly deformed from where it had rested against the curved side of the jar, but it still looked perfectly good. Sam fancied he could see little white specks here and there along the side, where he'd mixed the ground virile root (fuckflower, whispered his mind) into the batter. He must have been in a kind of frenzy himself when he did that. How could he have hoped to get away with it?

Now his sisters were all in a dither about the master up the Hill--who was naturally confusing enough, being tempting enough to turn the head of any lad or lass. And who knew what was going on with his Gaffer this morning: waking up in Widow Rumble's bed, mayhap, and wondering how he got there. Would Widow Rumble recognize the feeling, and trace it back to Sam? She seemed to have some experience in these matters. Would she merely count herself lucky, and leave it go? Or would she inquire into the strange affliction to strike the Gamgee family, and the master staggering about upon the Hill with a terrible headache and no clear memory of the last few hours? Sam didn't need no one to let him know what a scandal that would make.

Sam shivered, staring at the chocolate treat in his hand. On the one hand was his lust that even now stiffened him in his breeks. On the other hand was--everything else. If Sam had a lick of sense, he'd toss the brownie into the bushes, and dabble in potions no more.

A hand reached over his shoulder. Quick as a wink, the brownie disappeared from Sam's palm. He turned, startled, to see Master Pippin pop the whole thing into his mouth.

Sam's eyes bulged, as the young Took chewed, rolling his eyes to convey his delight. Then Master Pippin gulped, and Sam's debate remained forever academic.

Master Pippin smacked his lips. "Thank you, Sam. I never needed it more. Would you believe I got underway before dawn? I couldn't sleep last night for some reason."

Sam's jaw flapped. "You... rode all the way from Tuckborough this morning, sir?"

"Gracious, no! I stayed last night in Bywater. Jago threw a big bash, which I only caught the end of. You've never seen such a mess. This morning I had no desire to face everyone else's hangover, so I slipped off early and, here I am!"

"Here you are." Sam stared, frozen, counting his heartbeats. In a matter of moments, Master Pippin would open the door--and then he would get the four, or three, or two more rounds that Mr. Frodo had left in him. Sam had waited just one minute too long. Now everyone would be enjoying Mr. Frodo's natural haleness but Sam. That were hard, but no more'n he deserved.

Sam turned to go. "Well, sir, I hope you get to feeling better. I must get on with my work."

"Aren't you coming in?"

"There's no need, now that you're here. I meant only to start the master's tea."

"Don't you want... some tea, yourself?"

Something in Master Pippin's voice made Sam look round. The young Took--he was barely into his tweens--had a somewhat vacant expression. He swayed slightly, then gave Sam a crooked smile.

Sam took a step back. Surely Master Pippin weren't looking... at Sam? He cleared his throat. "Sir, if you'll just go in and lay the fire--"

Moving faster than Sam would have expected, Master Pippin sprang forward. Afore Sam could step aside, the young master had pushed Sam against the climbing nasturtiums that decorated the earthen bank beside the door. The blossoms were cool and fragrant against his back.

"I've no need to lay a fire, Sam," murmured Master Pippin, his lips ghosting over the exposed area of Sam's neck. "The fire is already laid, so to speak."

"Master Pippin," Sam protested. "Mmph!"

That was all that came out, as Master Pippin's lips had closed over Sam's.

Now, Sam had never given a moment's thought to Master Pippin as a lover. For one thing, he were far too young. Had been too young. Apparently, Master Pippin had growed up sometime when Sam weren't looking. This kiss, now. This were a mighty fine kiss. The lips had the right amount of softness to melt into Sam's own. His tongue was gentle and questing, not forceful. The gentlehobbit's hands were about his shoulders, and Master Pippin's length was poured along Sam's front. Slowly, the young hobbit's hips gyrated against Sam's. Through some trick of lust, or likely the pent-up desires of his body, Sam found himself responding. The young Took gave off a blast of heat in one area in particular, an area that ground with slow determination against Sam's already excited and ever-stiffening... will.

Somebody moaned. With a start, Sam realized that it was him. The sound spurred Master Pippin on. Grasping Sam's hair, he drove in his tongue farther than Sam thought was safe or advisable. But it was... stirring nonetheless. As Master Pippin pushed rhythmically against him, Sam felt his resolve crumbling. He'd never had someone pour themselves over him afore. It were surprisingly exciting. If it weren't right to take Mr. Frodo in a drugged moment (and it would never happen now, for obvious reasons), mayhap he could help relieve Master Pippin's sudden craving, as this was Sam's fault?

Whatever Sam decided, he'd best decide it quick. Master Pippin was undoing the buttons to Sam's breeks. Sam moved to push him away (or was it to give him better access?), when he discovered he'd been too slow. Master Pippin slid down Sam's body, and closed his lips about Sam's natural reaction.

Sam shouted. He collapsed against the nasturtiums, bracing his legs to keep himself from sliding down the smial. The most amazing sensations came from that inflamed part of him. Sam had never afore had anyone take him by mouth. It were... unbelievable. Sam clutched the sloping side of the smial with his fingers, gasping with tight-shut eyes.

Of a sudden, he understood why Mr. Frodo hadn't pushed away May or Daisy last night. Even if the partner weren't particularly perfect, there was something too strong in one's body to be fought. When somebody was that intent on getting those impulses out, all the arguments to tell them nay tumbled away on the wind. Sam was getting his first blowjob, and he found he really liked it.

Master Pippin was an enthusiastic tutor. How did he do that with his tongue? Oh, and his hands. Now he was using his hands. Sam spread his legs wider, and relaxed against the floral softness decorating the side of the smial.

"Sam," murmured Mr. Frodo in his mind. "I've always wanted you. Wanted you just like this."

"Oh, Mr. Frodo," Sam whispered in response.

Sam detached a hand from the side of the smial, and brought it down to the eager head in front of him. He caressed the soft curls. With his eyes shut, he pictured them as raven, not brown. And so soft. Sam stroked, melting into his fantasy.

"I love you, Sam," whispered Mr. Frodo, even as he sucked Sam in to the root.

"I love you, too, Mr. Frodo," Sam answered, his body growing very tight.

"After I finish you," he whispered, "I am going to slather you with oil. I am going to touch your most secret places, stroking and teasing until you are burning with passion. Then I will take you on my bed, as hard and as deep as I can."

Sam whined with eagerness, thrusting hard against the building sensation.

"I will drive you to heights of ecstasy," the master growled, "that you have never dreamed!"

"Frodo!" Sam cried, as his tension burst into rolling waves of rapture.

The cry echoed in the still morning air, startling Sam from his fantasy. His eyes snapped open, and he immediately noticed two things.

First, he had just come in the mouth of the future Thain of the Shire.

Second, the Master of Bag End was standing on his front step, looking rather rumpled, watching Sam with shocked and bleary eyes.

"Mr. Frodo!" Heedless of all else, Sam pushed Master Pippin away (rather abruptly, he was sorry to say). Hastily, he reached to do up his trousers.

For his part, Master Pippin was not at all keen on being pushed away. He protested loudly, swatting at Sam's hands and getting in his way. "No, Sam, it's my turn! Let us go into the kitchen. We can find something inspiring to do with butter and sugar, I'm certain that we can!"

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Frodo," Sam muttered, his gaze on the ground (which happened to take in the groveling, protesting Took, who was also on the ground). "It were an accident."

"Sam, come back!" Master Pippin cried, and Sam bustled past him. "I love you! Let me fill you with urgent delight, and tip us both once more over the edge of ecstasy. Dear, dear Sam, say that you will stay!"

"Good morning, sirs," Sam murmured, stumbling down the Hill with all possible speed.

Behind him, he heard Master Pippin say brightly to his host, "How about it, Frodo? Would you like to fuck?"


Sam had never spent a more miserable hour. He hadn't an idea of what he might do with himself. He could hardly return to the family smial; suffering his sisters' looks and questions would be past bearing. 'Sides, the Gaffer might be home. How Sam would look him in the eye, apart from any other considerations, was more than he could manage. Sam imagined the conversation in his head:

"So, sir, I'm the reason you ended in bed with Widow Rumble. I know she likely figured it out on her own and told you already, but it were an accident. And Master Pippin swallowing me whole, in front of the master just now, that were an accident, too. And Daisy and May tupping the master last night, time after time, well, that were the biggest accident of all. It was supposed to be me, tupping the master time after time, only I was too slow to deliver my sweets. I'm just hoping there won't be two dark-haired moppets in nine months' time, to raise the curiosity of the neighborhood."

But Sam knew that weren't the biggest accident. The biggest accident was what he had said, or rather hollered, in the moment of release. Mr. Frodo could hardly have missed Sam shouting his name, not after the way it had rung round the Hill. Oh! Sam buried his face in his hands. He would never be able to face the master again. Best he write a note, and leave it on the door. The Sackville-Bagginses could use a hand. That would be proper penance for the likes of him, working for that sour Miz Lobelia and her rotten son, enduring insults and short wages, and why shouldn't he? He'd made a proper mess of things. It were only right that he should suffer.

Wandering about the garden in this sorry way, he stumbled at last upon the cause of all his trouble. There, just as he had left it, lay his trowel beside the gaping hole in the turnip row. The soil about the hole had started to dry, as had the stash of turnips lying in the basket. Sam had best rinse them and get them out of the sun afore they ruined. But first, he'd best fill in that hole. He hoped he'd never see another fuckflower for as long as he lived. Happyshaft--that were a joke!

Bottom lip quivering, Sam knelt and reached for the trowel. He would fill the hole, burying once and forever the spot that had changed his life from an idle dream into plain ruination.


The soft voice so startled him, the trowel flew from his hands. Sam looked up, terrified. Mr. Frodo stood not six feet away, gazing down upon him sadly.

Sam hastily lowered his gaze. "Oh, sir." He twisted his hands in his lap wretchedly. He felt tears starting. He wished they might hold off, but that wasn't for him to say. The master could fire him just as well if he were crying as if he weren't. Sam braced himself for the blow.

Mr. Frodo came nearer. The tears flowed harder. Oh, how Sam wished it were over!

Mr. Frodo stopped not a foot away. Then, to Sam's confusion, he settled himself on the grass beside Sam. Sam turned away his head, too humiliated to face him.

"Sam," said Mr. Frodo gently, "I'm so very sorry."

Pure astonishment cut through Sam's tears. He looked round at his master, eyes wide. "Sir?"

Mr. Frodo looked near to tears himself. "About Pippin. I should never have expected him to take a liberty with anyone that way, least of all you. I had thought he had too much respect."

Sam stared. "You think Master Pippin... forced me?"

"I think he overwhelmed you into doing something you would not ordinarily have done. You forget how well I know you, Sam. I have sense enough to realize that you would be the last person to engage in oral sex with a gentlehobbit upon my front doorstep, if you had another choice."

Sam lowered his head quickly. "I should have thought so, too," he mumbled.

"It was a shocking lapse, but he is a tween and his judgment is not always sound. If it will not be too painful for you, I expect him to offer you a full apology--once he regains his senses."

Sam choked back his tears. "You... you want him to apologize to me?"

"Of course, assuming that he was the instigator. And he was the instigator, was he not, Sam?"

Sam could hardly speak through his shame. "I suppose." He blotted his nose on his sleeve.

"I thought as much. You had hardly gone when Pippin was all over me. Quite demanding he was, too. It was all I could do to wrestle him to his room to sleep off... whatever this is. It took some doing, but he is now happily absorbed in perusing one of Bilbo's Elvish art books. He is finding it quite stimulating, based upon his occasional cry." Mr. Frodo sighed. "I have no idea what brought this on, but I won't have him abusing you, Sam. I plan to send him home, as soon as it is safe to do so."

At the stab of guilt, Sam lowered his head. "You mustn't blame Master Pippin, sir. It's what I was coming to tell you this morning. There's a... flu, like, going round. It makes people act peculiar, and then they gets a headache and don't rightly remember what they'd been doing."

Mr. Frodo grew still. "Really?"

"Oh, yes." Sam wiped his eyes. "It's in the neighborhood. Two of my sisters caught it, is how I know. They were sick as dogs this morning. They might have passed it on to others, as well."

"I see," came the thoughtful murmur.

The pause was to Sam's feelings dreadful. He wished he might know what Mr. Frodo thought of this outrageous story. Sam listened to the pulse beat in his ears.

"Sam," said Mr. Frodo at last, "were you affected by this... flu?"

Sam hunched. "No, sir."

"You're sure?"

"Very sure, sir."

"Then... that shout you gave this morning. That came from... your heart?"

Mercy. Sam wished he might sink into the earth. But Mr. Frodo was waiting, and Sam couldn't lie to him. Not after all the damage he'd done.

"Sir," he began in a strangled whisper, "I'm ashamed to say it, but sometimes I have thoughts above my station. But never in a hundred years--"

"You have thoughts," Mr. Frodo interrupted. "About me?" His voice was very soft.

The tears started again. "I don't mean no harm by it, Mr. Frodo. Truly, sir. I always meant to keep such thoughts to myself."

"Until Pippin shocked it out of you?"

Sam nodded, miserable.

Mr. Frodo took Sam's hand. "Sam, one of the reasons I was so angry at Pippin this morning was not merely that he had taken a liberty with a servant. That would be atrocious enough. But, the fact that he had used you so." He caught his breath. "That made it very hard."

Sam listened tensely, unsure where this might be leading.

"I think one of the most appalling things a master can do," Mr. Frodo said, "is take advantage of those who are dependent upon him. I make it such a fast rule, that I do not permit myself to indulge in the tiniest thought in that direction. I was afraid that, once the thought was acknowledged..."

Sam's heart pounded. Scarcely able to speak, he said, "Are you saying you... have thought about me?"

Mr. Frodo dropped his head. His silence said everything.

Eagerly, Sam turned towards his master. "Then, it's all right."

Mr. Frodo said to his knees, "It isn't all right, Sam. It is thinking improper thoughts about you. You are still not of age, and you work for me. It wouldn't be right."

But Sam's heart was like to burst from relief. His master cared for him! His master thought about Sam the way Sam did about him! Sam had never felt such joy.

"Mr. Frodo," said Sam huskily. "That thing Master Pippin done... it were the first time such had ever happened to me."

"Was it?" Mr. Frodo studied his knees. All at once, he looked very dear to Sam--not the intimidating Master of Bag End, but a sweet, caring hobbit who was beset by distressing emotions that were every bit as overpowering for him as they would be for anybody.

Sam said softly, "If you don't mind, sir, I'd like to try such on you."

Mr. Frodo went still. Barely, he managed, "I could never ask you..."

Sam leaned forward. "You needn't ask."

Lightly, he touched his lips to Mr. Frodo's. They were softer than anything Sam had imagined. He leant in, tongue working, needing more. Mr. Frodo's mouth opened to him, and his hand came up behind Sam's head, pulling him closer. With increasing intensity, they drank from each other, sinking slowly onto the grass. Sam ended up on top. He felt as powerful now as he had felt helpless afore, the joy swelling in his chest. Sam explored his master's mouth thoroughly, all too conscious of a growing heat against his belly, twin to his own, that left no doubt as to their mutual state of mind.

Sam's hand crept between them. He stroked the fabric of his master's clothes, teasing apart the space between his waistcoat and his breeches.

"Mr. Frodo," he whispered, "would you allow your Sam to take a liberty? I promise you, my only intention is to make you feel good."

Mr. Frodo's long-lashed eyes slipped open. Sam found himself sinking into deep, blue pools so brilliant they hurt his eyes. His master touched his cheek. "Oh, Sam. Dear Sam."

Smiling, Sam slid lower. He loosened the buttons one by one, delighting in his master's little gasps and twitches. Sam treasured each one in his heart. He could not stop grinning.

Now I'm undoing my master's breeches, he thought to himself. Now I'm drawing the cloth aside. Oh, glory, he looks right ready for me. I wonder if this is left over from his bout last night--or might it be his natural vitality? At the supposition, desire shot through Sam like a spasm. He had no doubt that he were every bit as ready as his master. Slowly, with reverence, Sam brought down his head.

This time, the shout that rang over the Hill a few minutes later was slightly different, though no less emphatic. "Sam! Oh, Sam! Dear Sam."

Sam wondered if Master Pippin were asleep yet. There were things he wanted to do to his master in the privacy of his room, things involving oil and pillows and plenty of time.

And that was the happiest thought of all. From this moment forth, Sam had all the time in the world.

His heart sang.


When Sam got home that evening, the smial looked peaceful. In fact, Sam had never seen it look so well, with the gold of the setting sun tingeing the turf of the roof. It seemed to reflect the glow in his heart.

Only Sam's Gaffer was visible, setting on the back porch smoking his pipe. He, too, looked peaceful, watching the shaggy shapes of the trees along the colorful horizon as the sun sank.

It might have been his easy look, or the relaxed contentment within Sam that made all seem as if it must go well. Sam took a breath, fought down the flutters of joy and worry that seized him in equal parts, and approached his dad.

The Gaffer slanted him a look as Sam drew near. His eyes were keen in the dusk. Taking the pipe from his mouth, he said, "Do I have you to thank for last night, Sam?"

Sam blushed, then gave a jerky nod. "Yes, sir."

"Well." The pipe went back into the Gaffer's mouth. "Thank ye."

Feeling all upside-down, Sam went into the smial.

They never spoke of it again.


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