When I first set up a LJ entry, I listed my interests as LotR, fanfiction and slash. In my profile, I wrote, “That's a narrow range of interests, but since I will post or link to whatever fiction I might decide to write, I don't want someone (for example) thinking they've found a fellow campanologist, and actually finding Frodo tied up in the bell-tower while Sam has his wicked way with him. *Thinks* Yes, yes, that has possibilities... A touch of Stedman Doubles in which Sam goes out slow, dodges behind and comes in quick.”
Ever since then, the plot bunny has simmered on the backburner, and now a party of special magnificence has brought it to the boil...
Happy Birthday, Steffi! I hope you enjoy this outing into the little known English art of bellringing with rope and wheel.
For anyone who has come here through Google looking for guidance on ringing or calling a peal of Stedman Doubles, be warned: this story contains graphic depictions of homosexual acts involving hobbits. Yes - many, many people really do enjoy this sort of thing. I strongly advise that you leave now! If you don’t, and are offended by the following, then you have only yourself to blame. If you do read on, you are welcome to email me on any inaccuracies I may have made in the ringing, otherwise it is probably better that you keep your thoughts to yourself.
With many thanks to betas, lbilover, aliena, and to a.n.other - who prefers to remain anonymous, but who offers this insight into the story: “In another sort of fic, I'd be screaming 'Out of character, OMG!' But since I feel - and I'm pretty sure I'm right in this - that this fic is for fun (and a damn fine foray into sex-in-a-bell-tower-because-I-want-it-damn-it), I find it doesn't even make me blink. I have always felt that in humour, an author should be allowed to get away with a lot more than in something of a different genre. And in exchange for this very funny and very sexy little fic, I have no problem letting you get away with just about anything...”
Title: The Long Haul
Author: Elenya
Pairing: Frodo/Sam
Rating: NC17 for sexual content.
Warning: very mild BDSM, arcane bellringing terms, and gratuitous use of dialect words.
Sam stamped the snow from his feet on the door stoop of the potting shed. The day was warming as the sun reached its low winter zenith, but although the snow was melting fast, Sam could do little in the garden in this weather. There was a crisp clearness to the air, with enough snow left to look as pretty as a picture. A robin bobbed obligingly on a branch of the old pear tree to complete the scene. Sam nodded back, reflecting that it was no bad thing that today was a slow day. It meant he didn’t feel so guilty about both Gamgees taking the afternoon off from work, not that Mr. Frodo had ever complained. He pulled the shed door open and ducked under the old curtain that had been thrown out by Mr. Frodo from the best parlour several years back. His gaffer - quite rightly - was never a hobbit to discard anything that could be used to make do or mend, and the mice-nibbled edges of the faded green velvet were neither here nor there when hung inside the doorway of the Bag End potting shed.
As Sam straightened, he pulled the door shut, then shook the curtain a little to encourage it to lie snugly over the chinks to keep out draughts. It wasn’t until he turned and looked up into the dimly-lit store that he realised his gaffer was not busy sharpening and oiling tools, but was standing bent over the workbench, one hand clutching at the small of his back, while his weather-worn face was contorted into a grimace of pain. Sam rushed to his father’s side, a worm of selfishness curling in his belly at the thought that if his gaffer were incapacitated, his own hopes for that afternoon would come to nothing.
‘Da! Are you... what happened?’
The Gaffer glared at Sam and gave a grunt of pain. ‘What’s it look like’s happened, you daft lad. It’s me lumbago. I can’t get stood up straight, not nohow. Don’t just stand there like a ninnyhammer! Help me home!’
It was a slow business. Between the slipperiness of the path and the agony of the lumbago, it took nearly half an hour to reach their own smial, with much cussing and swearing from the Gaffer, and several cries of agony wrenched out by a misplaced step. Sam tried to be sympathetic, but he suffered from the indifference of those who have never experienced a bad back; after all, how painful could it be when there was nothing swollen, broken or crushed? He made himself imagine that it was Mr. Frodo who needed his help, and that thought gentled him into patience and distracted him from urging his father to walk faster. If this really had been Mr. Frodo doubled over, their faltering steps would have been heading for Bag End’s master bedroom...
The sky above was a pale washed-out blue with only a few wisps of cloud down near the horizon, and the air had that cold sharpness to it that comes from a clear, calm mid-winter’s day. It would be enough to explain the high colour in Sam’s cheeks, which was a blessing. His sisters - the chattering bunch of magpies that they were - always wanted to know what set his face aflame for no reason as he sat quiet-like with his pipe and a glass of stout in the evening, daydreaming his own unattainable dreams. Luckily, they didn’t often see him with Mr. Frodo, so they couldn’t quiz him over his blushing cheeks or the uncharacteristic shyness that set him stammering like the village idiot. Most times, Sam only got to admire Mr. Frodo from a distance; in his master’s presence, his gaze was frequently fixed to the ground at his feet.
Sam sighed and helped his father up to the doorstep of Number Three. He rattled the latch and threw the door wide to be met with cries of protest from his sisters. He wasn’t at all surprised to find them in their pinnies with flour all over. Baking for Yuletide had reached a fever pitch, and now it seemed that Samwise Gamgee was to be held personally responsible for cakes sinking in the oven as cold air swirled through the smial. Well, how was a body to come in? Sam knew his sisters well enough to know that question was better not voiced, especially with the peevish edge he would not be able to hide. He eased the Gaffer down onto a firm seat, knowing from past experience that his da would not be able to get up and out of one of the worn and patched armchairs when he was in this state. He stepped back as his sisters came flocking around, and cleared his throat.
‘Maybe a bit of stretching would be just the thing,’ he said hopefully. The Gaffer glared at him, then winced as he tried to straighten against the chair back.
‘Stretching! Stretching? Don’t be a lummox. I can’t even unknot me wretched back enough to stand. Marigold, be a good little lass: run and ask Widow Rumble to step round. Tell her it’s me old trouble and I’d thank her kindly for some ’o that horse embrocation.’ The Gaffer turned his head back to Sam. ‘I’m sorry, lad, but we’ll have to call it off for this afternoon. There’s no way I’m making it up to the bell tower, let alone swingin’ one o’ they girt ol’ bells.’
‘I’ll help you,’ suggested Sam. ‘And you could take hold on the dimshie.’
‘And pigs might strip the willow!’ The Gaffer’s voice was rising, showing his annoyance that Sam wouldn’t let it be. ‘Stop fretting, do. Plenty of other times for you to be calling your first peal. The bells ain’t about to go anywhere. It’s not for no reason special, so no harm done.’ The Gaffer turned too quickly in his seat and let out a yelp of pain followed by a grumbling curse.
Sam bit back a retort. Not only did his da truly look bad, his face pale and drawn, but any protest on Sam’s part that this afternoon was for a special reason, not just his first try at calling a peal, would draw inevitable questions - questions he’d be hard-pressed to answer to anyone’s satisfaction, including his own. It was twenty years to the day that Mr. Frodo had moved to Bag End: twenty years in which Mr. Bilbo had vanished, Mr. Frodo had become Master, and Sam had grown up and fallen in love.
‘I’d best get back up to the garden, tidy up, and then let the rest o’ the band know,’ he said to the room in general as he made his escape. Climbing the Hill, he sighed again at the stillness of the day. It was just the weather to let the sounds of the bells linger, the notes blending and rising, until the air sang with the sweetness of it. Mr. Frodo knew about that, called it “harmonics”. He always took time to listen when the bells were being rung and apparently knew enough to compliment them after a particularly well-struck effort. To Sam’s delight, he’d had plenty to say about those who thought the bells were no more than noise. Take those dratted Sackville-Bagginses, for instance: Sam had heard them call the Hobbiton bells a monotonous cacophony. Mr. Frodo, in his turn, had called his relations some choice names when Sam told him about it, including biggoty, coddy, twiddle-faced puddocks - which was very gratifying and showed a nice grasp of the Hobbiton vernacular.
As Sam headed round to the potting shed to finish the tasks his gaffer had left, he heard his name called. He turned to see Mr. Frodo wrapped up warm and carrying a small tray with a jug and three glasses. Sam blushed and dropped his gaze to his rather dirty feet, but not before he’d seen the brightness and warmth of Mr. Frodo’s eyes, the glow the cold had brought to his cheeks, and the sweetness of his smile. That smile in particular always brought Sam a mort of trouble. Maybe it was because Mr. Frodo’s position placed him so far out of Sam’s reach, but his daydreams tended towards a reversal of roles... and more. In Sam’s fantasy world - a world that tended to leave him sticky but unfulfilled - he demanded complete obedience of Frodo, punished misdemeanours, and took his pleasure as though it were his right. It was the reason he found it so hard to look Mr. Frodo in the eye.
‘Sam?’ Mr. Frodo sounded a little breathless. He nearly always said Sam’s name like that, as though it were a question. ‘I’ve mulled a little wine for you and your father, to warm you up before your peal.’
Sam shuffled his feet, feeling heat bloom without any need for mulled wine. It wasn’t unusual for Frodo to bring a drink or snack to him as he worked, a small service that usually ended in Sam slipping off behind the potting shed for a little quality time with his imagination. ‘Would you like it here, or have you time to come up to the kitchen?’ asked Mr. Frodo. ‘Is Hamfast in the shed?’
Sam closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, letting go of the thought that he’d like itfine anywhere his master cared to give it to him, but would much prefer it the other way about. He decided to tackle the second question. ‘The Gaffer’s poorly with his lumbago, sir. He’s at home, this very moment as is, and not going anywhere soon.’ Sam raised his head, caught Frodo’s look of concern, and quickly resumed a careful scrutiny of his toes. ‘Means there won’t be no peal,’ he mumbled. ‘But... but... thank ‘ee kindly for the thought.’
‘So, you’re short by one ringer? Look, Sam, come up to the kitchen, will you? The wine needs drinking while it’s warm, and... well, I might be able to help you, though I’m not making any promises. I’ll see if I’ve got any of that poppy infusion left.’ Frodo turned away without waiting for an answer.
Sam had no choice but to follow or appear rude. A small flutter of hope filled his stomach, not about Frodo suddenly allowing himself to be ravished among the cooking pans - he was only too well aware of the probability of that happening - but that his gaffer might be got up on his feet. He stepped into the spicy warmth of Bag End’s kitchen and dabbled his feet in the foot-bath standing there ready. Mr. Frodo pulled out a chair from the table.
‘Sam? Sit here, and I’ll just get us a bite to eat. If we’re going to get that peal, we’ll need to have eaten first. Now then, what are you planning on ringing? Folco’s Surprise again?’
Sam was so thrown by the fact that Frodo had apparently recognised the last few peals - the Gaffer’s favourite method - that he sat down without protest, staring at Frodo with his mouth hanging open. Frodo set plates, cutlery, bread, ham and cheese on the table, lifted the lid off the butter crock to invite Sam to help himself, and poured out two glasses of the dark spicy wine. He sat opposite Sam and laughed.
‘Or maybe Samwise Surprise,’ he suggested. His laughter lit up his eyes as he cut thick slices from the round loaf and offered them to Sam. ‘But really, Sam, what are you planning? I’ve never rung much in the way of Surprise methods except very occasionally the Buckland variation.’
‘You... you ring, sir?’
‘Since I had to stand on a box to reach the sally,’ said Mr. Frodo. ‘Grandsire’s my favourite.’
‘It was Stedman I had a mind to ring.’ Sam’s words came out in a rush. ‘But why did you never say? I mean...’ You’ve been here twenty years to the day, and you never once... But that implied that Mr. Frodo ought to have told them, and he was far above owing them anything.
‘I don’t think you know the reputation that precedes the Hobbiton band,’ said Mr. Frodo, his smile fading a little. He took a sip of his mulled wine. ‘Hamfast has a name for not tolerating fools gladly, and, well, Saradoc says my problem is that I let my mind wander, so my ringing can be a little, erm, unpredictable. But Stedman’s a lovely method and I’ll gladly help you out, if you’re willing to let me try; I mean, the worst that can happen is that I mess up and we don’t get your peal.’
Sam nodded, for once not thinking of how lovely Frodo looked and how he’d like to bugger him senseless. As a result, he looked directly at him. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but if you’ve not rung for years, then a peal is not the place to start. You’ll get blisters, for starters.’
‘I ring regularly at Buckland and Tuckborough. It’s true I’ve not rung a peal for a year or so, but I have rung several quarter peals; the last one was only a few weeks ago.’ Frodo helped himself to bread and cheese and pushed the butter towards Sam in a pointed manner. ‘Why don’t we ring a few rounds and call-changes for me to get used to your bells, then a quick hundred and twenty changes of Stedman to see what you think of my ringing. Your treble’s only three hundredweight, I think?’
‘The dimshie? That she is. A bit wayward to ring, but a lovely clear tone. I’ll put you on the third, if you’re really willing, sir. She’s slow to strike, but otherwise very well mannered.’
Frodo drew imaginary lines on the table with his finger. ‘That means I’m on the slow work, doesn’t it?’
‘First half turn,’ agreed Sam happily. He helped himself to cheese, his mind on the coming peal, completely oblivious to the fact that he’d lost all his self-consciousness in Frodo’s presence. He had no doubt that Frodo had the potential to do this, that he wasn’t boasting out of turn, but a peal was never a done deal: Sam might call it wrong, especially as it was his first attempt, or any ringer might lose concentration and embrangle them in crashing disharmony. Sometimes a good bout of shouting saved the day, sometimes not. But Frodo was right - the worst that could happen was that they messed up. He took a swallow of his mulled wine and met Frodo’s eyes again over the rim of his glass.
‘Thank you, sir. You don’t know what this means to me. I’ve been working this over in my mind for a long time, and, well...’
‘It’s my pleasure, Sam. I admire you. Calling a peal’s not something I’ve ever tried. I have enough trouble sometimes concentrating on what my own bell is doing, without having to worry about putting everyone else right and remembering when to call the Bobs and Singles. Do you want to find a lad and send him round with a message for the band? Tell them we’re having a practice ring first?’ He searched in his pocket and came out with a few coppers which he offered to Sam.
‘No need, sir. If we finish here and then start ringing up, they’ll come running quick enough.’
The walk over to Hobbiton’s bell tower was made in silence apart from the steady drip, drip of snow melting from the trees that lined the way. Sam wore his workaday clothes, homespun and patched, with the thick jacket Mr. Frodo had gifted him one birthday. His misshapen woollen hat had been knitted by his sister May, and he was rarely without it in the winter months. In contrast, Mr. Frodo was neatly turned out in warm shirt and waistcoat, tailored breeches, and greatcoat over all. To Sam, it was a reminder of his inferiority, even while he surreptitiously admired the neat figure at his side. Whenever possible and where politeness dictated, Sam dropped back to admire the rear view. He regretted the concealing nature of the heavy coat Mr. Frodo wore.
If anything, they were too warm in the bright winter sunshine as they crossed the bell field to the ancient flint tower, but inside the tower it was a different matter as their breath misted in the colder air. Mr. Frodo shivered a little as he hung up his fine coat on a hook behind the door, then he laughed as he looked around.
‘I recognise that carpet.’
‘Mr. Bilbo’s cast out, begging your pardon, sir, but it keeps our feet warmer as we ring.’ Sam pulled the heavy oak door shut behind them and looked around, seeing the ground floor ringing chamber with a newcomer’s eyes. The plaster on the walls was in need of a new coat of distemper to hide the stains, where damp had seeped through the lime mortar of the walls. A high arched, south-facing leaded window with one missing pane gave light to the inside of the round tower. The only furniture was a small wooden chest where they kept a few odds and ends.
Sam ran his eyes up the six long ropes hanging in a circle round the tower, checking there was no sign of fraying as they disappeared through the guide holes in the ceiling far above. It was habit: he’d checked the ropes thoroughly the day before and been up into the bell chamber to grease the headstocks and make sure each bell’s wooden stay was sound. If a stay broke while ringing, not only would the bell toll on and on until it lost momentum and hung quiet in its frame, but the rope would rush up to the ceiling so fast that its ringer would be in real danger - if their reflexes weren’t quick, or they hung on in some mistaken belief it was the right thing to do.
Each rope end was looped back on itself, its tail-end secured in a loose knot at about chest height, while the plump fluffy sallies provided a padded grip higher up. Traditionally, the sallies were striped in red, blue and white, but Hobbiton did different: the sallies here were the red of a cock robin’s breast. Sam took hold of the nearest rope and with a quick flick of his wrist released the tail. For safety, the huge bells were always left hanging mouth down in their frames; the first task was to raise each one using rope and wheel, until they could be rested mouth-up against their stays, ready for the real ringing to begin.
‘This here’s the treble,’ said Sam. ‘Or the dimshie bell, as we call her. We’ll ring up two by two, if you please.’ He nodded with approval as Frodo took hold of the next rope and tested the balance of the bell before coiling the rope in his left hand and wrapping his fingers securely round the plump sally. With small tugs, they set the two bells swinging, tin tan, tin tan, building the momentum and easing the rope out as each bell swung higher and higher, until there were no more coils left. The pace slowed as the bells swung almost full circle: tin... tan... tin... tan - and then stopped as the hobbits brought each bell gently to rest against her stay. They moved without comment to the next pair, but Sam was silently singing. He could tell a lot from how a ringer handled a bell; Frodo had a lovely technique, and Sam himself couldn’t have eased the weight of the second against her stay with more control. They had just finished raising the third and fourth - din... dan... din... dan - when the other ringers arrived in a rush, their cheeks glowing and their breath coming fast.
‘I dint know we was starting so early,’ said Tom Willow, the gnarled octogenarian who had rung the tenor for nigh on sixty years. He tugged his forelock to the Master. ‘Come to watch, have ‘ee, sir?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but eyed the small door that opened onto the spiral staircase. ‘The Gaffer nipped up to the bell chamber, Sam?’
Sam shook his head and explained his gaffer’s indisposition. Heads swivelled back to the master and four pairs of eyes stared at him. Sam saw the duck of Frodo’s head, and then the way he lifted his chin to face his doubters. Bless him, he’s putting on a brave face, thought Sam, and for the first time he saw Frodo not as his master who could do no wrong, nor as the object of his foolish and rather perverted dreams, but as a hobbit with feelings who could be discomforted and made to feel an outsider.
‘Now then,’ he said briskly. ‘Bert, Win, you two ring up them last bells while I shorten the third’s rope for Mr Frodo, since he’s taller than most, then we’ll start with a bit of a practice.’ His gaffer might be the tower captain, but as the conductor of the peal, Sam was in charge, and he wasn’t going to stand any nonsense from his band.
By the time they’d finished the practice ring, Sam was ecstatic. Frodo’s rope-sight was flawless and he listened to his bell. Just one hand and back stroke - as the bell swung a complete circle and then back again - and Frodo had got the measure of the third’s slightly odd striking. He held up when hunting out to the back and pulled in when running down to the lead, and the only danger was that Sam would lose himself watching the easy flow of Frodo’s movements. Mr. Bilbo had taught him to love poetry, and here was poetry set in motion. Frodo looked like he could easily keep going for as long as was needed to ring the peal. Sam cleared his throat, instinctively catching the sally as it came rushing down on the backstroke, and forced his eyes to watch the rise and fall of the other ropes.
‘That’s all!’Sam pitched his voice to carry over the sound of the bells, and they came smoothly back into rounds. Tin, tan, din, dan, bom, bo; tin, tan, din, dan, bom, bo. ‘Everyone happy to be a’going straight on?’ he called, and in response to their nods, ‘Now then: Go, Stedman Doubles!’
They were in for the long haul, and he could only hope that Frodo would be able to keep concentration over the three hours that followed. He kept a close eye on him to start with, making sure that he was keeping his place. They dodged together at the back, sharing a smile as they wove their bells’ notes together in a tight dance, then Frodo stayed up while Sam went in slow. Gradually, Sam relaxed to the music - not a tune, but a mathematical pattern that constantly shifted the order of the bells without ever coming back into the plain rounds. His occasional calls of ‘Single!’ keptchanging the coursing order of the bells, postponing again and again that moment when they would come back into rounds.He took the slow work at the front - making way briefly for Frodo as he came in quick, led full, and hunted out again - and then met him once more to dodge at the back. Again he was met with a smile as they worked together, in and out, in and out.
There was one flurry when Gil on the treble went in slow when he should have been quick, throwing the front bells into disarray. Thankfully, Frodo and Win kept their heads, and some judicious shouting from Sam set the bells into the right order again just in time for his next call of ‘Single!’. Several times, Sam was so busy admiring the stretch of Frodo’s body at backstroke that he almost went astray. Once he came close to missing a call - a disaster that could not have been undone - but Frodo coughed and raised an eyebrow, bringing Sam’s attention back to the matter in hand. Only on one occasion did Frodo almost let Sam down, towards the end when they were all getting tired; he lost concentration, as he’d warned Sam he was prone to do, and fumbled the slow work.
‘Frodo!’ shouted Sam from the back. ‘Lead wrong! NOW!’ Frodo hauled in his rope, obeying instantly, and the peal settled in for the home course. The pace had been fast, and in a little over two and a half hours the bells finally came home into rounds again.
‘That’s all!’ Sam’s call was jubilant.
Tin, tan, din, dan, bom, bo; tin, tan, din, dan, bom, bo.
‘Well done, Master Samwise!’ called Tom. ‘Are we a’goin’ to ring down in peal, then?’ Sam glanced round at his band. They had got past the point of being tired. It would be a fitting way to end.
‘Right then, close them up, lads, and down we go!’ Faster and faster, the notes of the bells merged together, setting up harmonics that sang in the still air. Ropes were coiled and sallies checked as gradually the bells were stopped from swinging their full circle, until finally they were barely moving. The hobbits were doing no more than softly chiming the bells. Sam noted with approval how Frodo watched the bell before him but listened and reacted to those pressing in behind - listening backwards, as his gaffer would say. ‘Twice more!’ called Sam, letting his coil of rope go and just pulling on the hardly moving sally. ‘Once!’ Tin, tan, din, dan, bom, bo. ‘Twice!’ Tin, tan, din, dan, bom, bo. ‘And miss one!’ Silence for the beat of six bells.
‘And catch!’
Tin, tan, din, dan, bom, bo.
In the silence, the harmonics that had been created sang on and on before slowly dying away, and only then did the hobbits tie up their ropes and give a round of applause. They crowded together, clapping Sam on the back and shaking Frodo’s hand.
‘Mr. Baggins, sir, you’re a dark horse, if I may say so,’ said Gil, Hobbiton’s carpenter. ‘I hope we’ll have the pleasure of your company again.’
‘And I hope you’ll all join me in the Ivy Bush this evening for a celebratory drink,’ said Mr. Frodo, tucking his hands behind his back. ‘On me, of course,’ he added. This welcome news got a cheer of its own, and after some more back clapping for Sam, the other ringers left together. Win stood holding the door open.
‘You coming, Sam?’ he asked.
Mr. Frodo cleared his throat. ‘I’m hoping Sam will show me the bells before we go,’ he said. He glanced at Sam and away. ‘All the time I’ve lived here, I’ve never...’
‘I’ll gladly show you,’ said Sam quickly. Maybe it was the euphoria of success, but he very much wanted to be alone here with Frodo.
‘Right, I’ll be seeing you later, then, Sam. Mr. Frodo, sir.’ Win bobbed his head in way of farewell and pulled the door closed behind him.
‘I know they meant well,’ said Frodo, looking down ruefully. ‘But I don’t think I could have taken any more hand shaking.’
Sam gently took Frodo’s hands in his own, turning them palm up, and winced. Those were some bad blisters. ‘Mr. Frodo -’
‘I liked Frodo better.’
Sam blushed and looked up, meeting Frodo’s steady gaze. ‘I’m sorry you got blisters, sir, and I’m sorry I shouted at you.’ Frodo had made no attempt to withdraw his hands, and - realising he’d held them too long - Sam let go hastily but was unable to look away from Frodo’s eyes. ‘I... I’ll get you some salve, if you’ll call in at Number Three on your way home. The Gaffer will be nigh beside himself wondering who was ringing in his stead.’
‘Don’t worry about shouting at me, Sam,’ said Frodo softly. ‘You set me right; I liked it. I... I liked the way you watched me all the... all the time.’ His breath caught and then steadied. ‘Here, you’re the Master.’
Sam couldn’t look away or make coherent answer. Frodo’s pupils had dilated to dark pools that held him captive, and all the blood in his body had rushed to his cock. His longing to hold Frodo close, to wrap him in his arms and master him was as familiar as his dreams; what he’d never thought on was that Frodo might desire him, might want to be mastered. The ringing chamber around Sam faded away as he lost what little sense he had. Very slowly, he reached for Frodo’s hands again and pressed a kiss to each blistered palm. Frodo’s eyes fluttered closed, and his lips parted on a soft sigh as though Sam had given him the most precious gift and his heart’s desire. Sam shifted his hold, sliding his fingers around Frodo’s wrists, and slowly traced his thumbs over the delicate veins.
‘Frodo, me dear,’ he murmured, trembling at his audacity and desire in equal measure. ‘I love you.’
There, it was said. Sam had set something in motion, and the momentum would carry him to the world’s end if need be... or land him outside the belfry on his ear.
Frodo opened his eyes, and his smile was one of pure delight. ‘Sam?’
That question again, but now Sam thought he knew the answer. He let go of Frodo’s hands, catching a satisfying glimpse of disappointment, and bunched his fingers into Frodo’s sweat-dampened shirt. There was so little resistance that Sam completely misjudged the force needed to run him up against the door. Frodo let out an oomph of surprise as he thumped into the wood, pinned there by the solid weight of Sam’s sturdy body. Loose flakes of plaster showered down upon their heads as Frodo stared back at Sam. He looked half-stunned, his eyes losing focus.
Sam tried to step back, to make an abject apology, but Frodo furled one hand around the back of his neck and pulled him into a fierce kiss. The wildness and wantonness of it released any control Sam might have had. He responded with urgency, his tongue surprisingly far down Frodo’s throat, his hands busy as Frodo bucked beneath him. He tugged and pulled at Frodo’s shirt, moaning as his hands moulded to hot naked skin. All the time, he rubbed his body back and forth between Frodo’s legs, grinding their cocks together. He eased back just enough to get one hand down between them and fumbled with the fastening on Frodo’s breeches. Through his urgent moans he was vaguely aware of a light huff huff sound. He came up, gasping for air, only to find that Frodo was laughing.
‘I... I love you, too, Sam. I take it... I take it we’re not bothering with the slow work?’
‘I reckoned to turn you from the lead,’ said Sam as firmly as his breathless state and his joy allowed, ‘dodge behind, and then... and then come in quick.’ He closed his eyes as he freed Frodo’s cock, as full and plump as a sally, and took hold. ‘A plain course, nothing fancy.’
‘S-Sam?’
‘Yes, me dear?’
‘Will you be my master?’
‘If you’ll have me.’
‘Will you...’ Frodo sagged as Sam perfected his method - Samwise Surprise - on his weeping cock. ‘Will you make me... do as you wish? Force me to... to do as you wish?’
Sam brought his mouth to Frodo’s ear and exhaled softly. ‘I was thinking rope,’ he murmured. Frodo’s body spasmed and went rigid, his head whipping back with a thud against the door. He made a choking cry as he came in thick ropey strands that overspilled Sam’s palm and spattered the carpet. Sam nearly came himself at the wonder of it. He pressed in with one hip, supporting Frodo’s sagging body while allowing himself to loosen his own breeches with his unsoiled hand.
‘Wait you, wait you,’ he murmured. ‘Soon as you’ve got your breath, I’m making you mine... whether you’re willing or no.’ He forced himself to wait until Frodo could at least stand swaying on his feet, before spinning him round and forcing him against the door.
‘Undo your braces, we’ll have those breeches off,’ he growled. ‘Now spread your legs for your master.’ There was no shortage of come on Sam’s hand to aid his way, but he needed some reassurance first. As he spread the creamy harvest, he leaned in to kiss and mouth at Frodo’s neck.
‘Have you done aught like this before?’ he whispered, his voice husky with need.
‘Y-yes, but not... not...’
Sam stilled. ‘Not what, me dear?’
‘Not with one... I love so well.’
‘And will there be others?’ Sam slid fingers home, massaging and opening Frodo.
‘No... only you.’ Frodo gave a gasp as Sam’s cock pushed into him. ‘I’m yours.’
‘And what am I?’
‘You’re my - ’ Another gasp as Sam thrust deep. ‘You’re my master, Sam.’
All Sam’s dreams roiled together with the reality of being balls-deep in Frodo. He tried to hold back, wanting to give Frodo more, but the heat and the tightness and the wanting were too much for a body to bear. He ploughed in deep, one arm wrapped around Frodo’s waist to pull him back into his thrusts, while his other hand gripped Frodo’s shoulder, steadying him against the door.
‘Yes! Sam! Yes! Harder! Please...’
Sam dragged Frodo back against himself, struggling for coherence.
‘Wh... what do you say,’ he growled against Frodo’s ear. ‘To your master?’
‘Please, s-sir.’
In a wild haze of love and lust Sam thrust hard and gave up his seed into Frodo’s body. ‘Mine,’ he gasped. ‘You’re mine.’ He collapsed against Frodo’s sweat-drenched back, his sheathed cock still hard and too sensitive to move. With heaving chests and shaking legs they slumped together against the door, until Sam’s cock softened and slipped free. With a sigh of regret at the loss of the union, Sam eased his weight off Frodo and allowed him to turn into his arms. He slid his hands up under Frodo’s shirt, caressing him.
‘You’ll be naked for me next time,’ he murmured.
‘Whatever you want, sir.’ There was a gleam in Frodo’s eyes, before they were respectfully lowered .
Sam laughed at that. ‘I’m afraid you have no idea...’
‘Really?’ Frodo’s lips brushed Sam’s as he breathed the words against his mouth. ‘Then I’ll enjoy finding out, sir.’
Epilogue
The summer heat filled Frodo’s bedroom despite the closed curtains that muted the room into dark intimacy. In the flickering light of a single candle, Frodo’s chest rose and fell in rough gasps. His body was sheened with sweat and seed, his cock still part-erect despite how hard he’d just come. Sam eased off him, shaking and weak from the force of his own release, and reached to unfasten the ropes that held Frodo bound. He gently rubbed Frodo’s wrists, worried as always that he might have tied the restraints too tight, but Frodo pulled him down to sprawl across the bed and licked his way across Sam’s damp chest.
‘Stop fretting, sir. You know I love it.’
‘Frodo?’ Sam shifted his body to bring a nipple beneath Frodo’s questing tongue.
‘Hmmm?’ Frodo had taken the hint to suckle softly.
‘Why did you never say anything before last Foreyule? We could have had this months past if you’d given me any sign.’
Frodo raised his head and smiled his sweet smile. It widened as he noted the stirring in Sam’s cock. ‘Because you never showed any sign of being anything but subservient before then, love. You’d hardly meet my eye. If things had been otherwise, I’d have been worrying that you hadn’t been able to say “no” to me.’
‘And now?’ Sam traced his broad hands over Frodo’s body. Had he really bitten hard enough to leave those marks?
‘Now?’ Frodo lay down again, tucking his head under Sam’s chin. ‘Well, I enjoy being the Master of Bag End, but it feels more than good just to let go and have you take the lead. It gives me a warm tingle when you get all masterful.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, what?’ Sam deepened his voice with a snap of warning in it.
Frodo shivered and arched into his body. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then you can start by cleaning me up.’
Sam relaxed back with a sigh of contentment as Frodo slid down his body and started licking him clean with a slow thoroughness. Already Sam’s cock was filling, twitching for the feel of Frodo’s throat or arse tightening around it again. Life was full of surprises, and some of them were very good indeed. As Sam drifted between post-coital satiety and arousal, he wound his fingers into Frodo’s hair, guiding him into giving head. They were in for the long haul, a lifetime of loving, and Sam didn’t really care whether Frodo would always delight in being mastered, or would one day want to ring the changes.
For the moment, he was happy to have Frodo’s tongue furling around the swelling of his crown and lapping under the rim. It was almost too much for his already sensitised cock. Frodo had a lovely technique, poetry set in motion, and Sam knew from experience that he could keep it up for as long as was needed.
He closed his eyes and gave silent thanks for his gaffer’s lumbago.
***
For those of you who would like to learn more about change-ringing, go here for a variety of links.
