Title:  A Book from the Library 
Author: Kathryn Ramage
Email:  kramage@erols.com
Pairing: Frodo/Sam 
Rating:  NC17
Summary:  Frodo borrows a book of erotic poetry to learn how to 
make love.

Disclaimer: The characters and overall storyline are certainly not 
mine.  They belong to J.R.R. Tolkien's estate, and I'm just playing 
with them to entertain myself and anyone else who likes this kind 
of thing.  The lines of poetry Frodo quotes near the end are not 
mine, but slightly altered from Walt Whitman.

February 2004 

!~|*|~!

Frodo lay across the foot of the bed in his room in the house at
Minas Tirith, so engrossed in the large book open before him that 
he did not hear when Sam came in.

"What's that you're reading?" Sam asked after he had stood quietly 
for awhile, waiting to be noticed.  Frodo read more than anybody 
Sam knew, except for old Mr. Bilbo, but it had been some time since 
he'd seen Frodo with a book.

Frodo looked up at the question, startled, then he smiled.  "It's 
poetry." 

"Must be wonderful stuff."  Remarkable poetry indeed, if Frodo's 
looks were anything to go by: his eyes sparkled excitedly, and the 
tips of ears had turned bright pink.

"Oh, it is.  The love sonnets of Alborel.  He was a great hero of 
Gondor at the end of the Second Age."  Frodo indicated the page he 
had been reading with such intense concentration.  "He wrote these 
poems in memory of his lover, a young soldier named Taracalir who 
served with him in the last Alliance of Men and Elves, and fell in 
the battle against Sauron's army.  I took it out of the library."

"You took it?"

"I'll give it back when I'm finished with it.  I asked Gandalf if 
I could borrow something to read from the city's archives, and he 
asked the librarian for permission on my behalf.  They agreed that 
I could have whatever I liked.  I just didn't tell them which book 
I brought away with me.  I spent hours this morning trying to find 
this."

"Now why did you want to go looking for such a book?" Sam wondered.  
"And how did you know to look for _that_ one in particular?" 

"Uncle Bilbo mentioned it once.  He'd read some of these poems at 
Rivendell." 
 
"Mr. Bilbo...?"  Sam was more than surprised; he was shocked. 

"He was too embarrassed to tell me much beyond Alborel's name and 
suggest that I might want to read his poetry myself one day," Frodo 
explained.  "It was the closest we came to speaking frankly of such 
things.  He must have seen how it was between you and me even then."

"Mr. Bilbo used to sit with me at your bedside after you'd taken 
your wound at Weathertop," Sam told him.  "We'd watch over you 
while you lay sleeping, and I'd talk to him about you."

Frodo smiled softly.  "I think he understood what was happening 
to us before we did ourselves.  He knew that I'd want to know..."  
He lifted his eyes to meet Sam's.  "That's why I wanted to find 
this book, Sam.  If you and I are going to be lovers, we ought to 
have a better idea of what to do."

Sam acknowledged that this was a problem.  While they rested and 
recovered from their ordeal in Mordor, they had cautiously begun 
to express their newly discovered feelings for each other.  In 
the past weeks, they'd progressed from quick, shy kisses to longer 
embraces to tentative explorations by candlelight.  At last, they
had gotten into bed together--and there their explorations had 
faltered in ignorance and confusion.  They knew that there was 
more they could do, but didn't know exactly how to go about it. 

"We could use a bit of help," he agreed.  "None of my old Gaffer's 
advice about getting married and having babies has done me much 
good."

Frodo looked curious.  "What did he tell you?"   

"Naught I could make sense of.  When I got old enough to hear of 
it, he sat me down and told me about the flowers coming into bloom
and how the bees carried the pollen, and something about planting 
my seeds in fertile soil where the babies would grow."

"Surely not!"  Frodo had to laugh.  "I admit I'm terribly ignorant 
of these matters, but even _I_ know you don't get babies from the 
garden, like cabbages."

"It didn't seem right to me either," Sam admitted, "but that's 
what the Gaffer said.  There was six of us he'd fathered, so he 
must've known what he was talking about even if I didn't."

"Well, in any case, we're not concerned with having babies.  I'm 
quite sure that you and I couldn't do it, not with each other!"  
He turned back to his book.  "From what I've read, I've learned 
a few things already.  Some of these poems are very explicit.  I 
know what it is I want."  He glanced up at Sam again, more shyly 
this time.  "I'd like you to make love to me."

"But I thought-" Sam lowered his voice, even though they were
alone.  "I thought that's what I was doing."

"No, I mean-" Frodo turned back through the pages.  "There was a 
picture... Here."  He found it.  "See?  Like this."

Sam climbed up to sit beside him and look at the page Frodo had 
turned to: A black ink drawing, highly stylized and graphically 
detailed, of two obviously masculine figures entwined.  "That's 
what you want to do?"

"Something like that, yes."

"Frodo, I couldn't, not hanging head down that way!  I'm no acro-
bat--it won't be no good if all the blood rushes to my head and 
I pass out."

"I don't think they're meant to be upside down," Frodo answered
after some consideration.  "They're meant to be lying down, as 
if abed.  If you look at it so-" he turned the book so that the 
figures were horizontal to his and Sam's perspective.  "That 
makes more sense, doesn't it?  We might do that." 

Faces close, cheek brushing cheek, the two hobbits gave the 
illustration careful study.

Yes, Sam thought, he could do that.  In fact, just looking at the 
two Men tangled there on the page made him feel very funny: his 
mouth was dry, his face was hot, and his heart thumped so that 
he felt the pulse of it all through his body.  When he imagined 
himself tangled up with Frodo that same way, the pulses ran even 
harder and he began to be uncomfortable lying belly-down, pressed
to the mattress.

"I know that Men're built the same as hobbits, only bigger," he 
said after shifting to a less constrained position, "but by the 
blessed stars-!  That bit there's large enough to belong on a 
horse!  Here, now," he turned to Frodo in wonder, "d'you suppose 
Strider or Boromir was as big as _that_?"

They stared at each other, wide-eyed at the thought.  "I don't 
know," Frodo confessed.  "I never dared look.  It would've been 
so embarrassing to be caught peeking."

"Could summat that size even fit inside, as he's trying to do to 
that other Man?"

"It must have fit.  If Alborel's told the truth in his poems, he 
and Taracalir did it every chance they got."  Frodo read from the 
page opposite the picture.  "He writes of 'the oil of a thousand 
heavenly flowers, that soothe the path of love...'"  They con-
templated what that meant in practical terms.

To Sam, 'oil' was for cooking.  "I suppose we can get some from 
the kitchens," he said.  "Or- wait.  I saw some scented oils in 
old bottles in the bath, up on the top shelf over the towels and 
soap.  D'you think that's the sort of thing that this Alborel was 
meaning?  Most of `em look like they dried up ages ago, but we 
might find something there that'll do."

"Why don't you go and see?"

"What, _now_?" 

"Why not now?  It's the best time.  We are alone in the house.  
The others won't be back for hours.  Or would you rather wait `til 
tonight and do it when Merry and Pippin are right next door?  What 
if they were to overhear?"

This didn't seem quite proper to Sam, but he had to agree that it 
was the more sensible choice.  He could imagine the jokes Mr. Merry 
and Mr. Pippin would make over breakfast tomorrow if they heard 
what he and Frodo were up to!  If Frodo wanted to make love now, 
then Sam was ready to do it.  As excited as he felt after looking 
at that picture, he didn't think he could wait much longer himself!  

He went upstairs to search the bathroom cabinet.  When he returned, 
he found that Frodo was already undressing; he had taken off his 
trousers and thrown them over the back of a chair, and was halfway 
through unbuttoning his shirt.

Sam caught his breath and stood staring, until Frodo asked, "Did 
you find anything?" 

"Most of `em _were_ empty, as I thought they'd be, but I found 
this one with the stopper in tight and a drop of oil left."  He 
held out a small, dusty, purple-tinted glass bottle.  "It smells 
of lilac."

Frodo took the bottle and climbed up onto the bed.  He sat on the 
center of the mattress, in a rectangular patch of sunlight cast 
in from the windows, and took one of the pillows from the head of 
the bed, which was hidden in shadows, to place behind himself.

"Don't you want to draw the curtains?" asked Sam.

"No."  Frodo shook his head.  "We won't be able to see each other.  
That's half our trouble--In dim light and under the covers, we 
can't see what we're doing!"

Sam stood at the bedside, watching as Frodo finished unbuttoning 
his shirt and tossed it aside.  As much as he wanted to make love
to Frodo, the idea of doing it in broad daylight still seemed 
somehow improper: Kisses might be stolen by day, but lovemaking 
ought to be done in dark rooms at night, not with the windows 
wide open, the curtains tied back, and sunlight pouring in over 
the bed!  And there were other reasons why he hesitated...

Frodo pulled the stopper from the bottle and poured a small pool 
of oil into the palm of one hand; he sniffed it, then dabbled at 
it with his fingers until they were well-coated, and then reached 
around behind his back to apply it.  When he was done, he set the 
resealed bottle down near the book, which remained open to the 
picture as if for reference, then turned to Sam with an expectant 
smile.  

"It's your turn," he said invitingly.  "Why aren't you undressed
yet?  Take off those clothes, and come here."

Sam blushed and fumbled at his shirt buttons, lost in shyness at 
letting Frodo see him naked.  The other times they'd lain abed 
together, they'd always worn their nightclothes.  He'd never been 
self-conscious about his appearance before they'd begun to be 
lovers--chubbiness was, after all, the natural state for a healthy 
hobbit, and Frodo too thin and pale by the same standard--but as 
Sam gazed up at Frodo seated on the bed waiting for him, he didn't 
think that the other hobbit looked undernourished.  On the con-
trary, he looked to Sam like the loveliest creature in the world.  
That milky-fair skin glowed golden in the sun; even the scars on 
Frodo's body, the sight of which so often brought tears to Sam's 
eyes, could not mar its beauty.  He felt like a lump in comparison 
and he wondered, not for the first time: What could Frodo possibly 
want with _him_?

But Frodo saw his reluctance, and seemed to understand.  "Don't 
be shy, Sam," he said with tender affection.  "You've no reason 
to be embarrassed.  I love you just as you are, and wouldn't have 
you any other way."  He held out a hand.  "Come to me."

Still feeling timid, but reassured by these words, Sam shed his 
clothes and scrambled up onto the bed.  They kissed, and Frodo 
used the oil remaining on his hands to prepare Sam as well.  In 
spite of his declaration that he wanted to see what they were 
doing, he kept his eyes on Sam's face as he worked on him, except 
when they stopped for more kisses.  When he was done and Sam was 
slickly lilac-scented and fully aroused, Frodo drew away to lie  
back against the pillow, eyes still on Sam's.  Then he reached 
out to pull Sam close.

As Sam settled on top of him, Frodo made fluttering, uncertain 
little movements, wriggling, tugging at Sam to try to arrange 
them both into positions that mimicked the figures in the book.  
Sam was eager to do this exactly right and, as always, to please 
Frodo; he was willing to be guided in whatever way Frodo wanted 
him to go, but he grew concerned when Frodo struggled to lift 
his legs up, putting his feet on Sam's shoulders and forcing his 
knees against his own chest.

"Is that right?" Sam asked doubtfully.

"That's how they did it."

"It doesn't look very comfortable."

"It isn't.  I don't know if I'll be able to breathe once we get 
started."  

"Well, maybe it's what _they_ did, but I don't see how it'll work 
for you 'n' me."  Taking Frodo by the ankle, Sam gently removed 
the foot that had nearly gone into his ear.  "Can't we try some-
ways else?"  

There was some more shifting of position, until they found that 
it was less awkward for Frodo to wrap his legs around Sam's back 
beneath his arms than to hook them over his shoulders.  As their 
bodies joined, Frodo made soft, equally uncertain sounds, whimpers, 
wordless directions and encouragements--and then he gasped, "Oh, 
my!"

The oils did 'soothe the path.'  While he was nowhere near the 
fearsome horse-like size of the Man in the picture, even scaled 
down to more ponyish hobbit proportions, Sam had been afraid of 
hurting Frodo.  But he slipped inside so easily with the first 
thrusts that the head-spinning, triumphant thrill of suddenly
gaining possession overwhelmed his fear.  Panting, they beamed 
at each other, almost astonished at their success. 

"We've done it!" said Sam.  "Only... what do we do next?"  Won-
derful as this was, there must be more to it.  They weren't done 
yet.  If there were further instructions in that book, he was 
sure Frodo would tell him.

But Frodo only said, "Keep going."  

"There's no farther I can go!  I'm all the way in-" He moved his 
hips forward slightly to demonstrate--which sent a fresh burst 
of exhilarating sensation rippling through him, and produced a 
sharp cry from Frodo.  "Are you all right?"

"Yes," Frodo answered in a ragged intake of breath.  "Oh, yes."  
He pulled Sam's head down to kiss him with trembling lips.  "Do 
that again."    

Sam did it again, using small thrusts at first, then pulling out 
a little to drive back in harder once he was certain that he wasn't 
harming Frodo by it.  Rather, Frodo seemed to enjoy it very much, 
for he moaned and shuddered with his own pleasure at each renewed 
piercing.  His heels drummed into the small of Sam's back.  He 
moved his hips to meet Sam's, until they found a rhythm together.  
The increasingly violent motion of the bed sent the book totter-
ing perilously near the edge, then it slid off.

There was one last, incredible burst, and it was all over.  Sam 
rested for a moment with his brow on Frodo's breastbone; when he 
lifted his head, he looked up into eyes that were wild with un-
fulfilled need.  He still felt a hardness prodding his belly, and 
he realized with dismay and alarm that he'd gone too quickly, and 
Frodo wasn't finished yet.

As they moved apart, Frodo grabbed one of his hands and guided it 
down. Sam understood what he was being asked to do.  He'd touched 
Frodo this way before, under the blankets and in the dark.  Turn-
ing Frodo to lie on his side, Sam spooned in close behind him.  
One arm reached around Frodo's hips to fondle, almost as if he 
were handling himself.  Sam knew how to do _that_ without looking 
into any books!  His fingers stroked up and down the shaft with 
familiar ease, and his thumb rubbed vigorously.  Frodo writhed 
against him, head back on his shoulder, and cried out his name.  
It wasn't long before wetness spilled into his hand.

Sam buried his face in the dark curls at the nape of Frodo's neck.  
"Was that all right?"  

"M-hm," Frodo's reply was a languidly contented murmur.  "Just as 
it should be:

'For the one I loved best lay sleeping beside me,
with his arm `round my breast--and I was happy.'

Isn't that lovely, Sam?  It's just how I feel right now.  Don't 
you?" 

Sam thought that this must be from one of Alborel's poems, but 
he agreed, "It fits me too."  He would be happy to stay like this 
forever: lying curled with his beloved in his arms, drowsy and 
sated in the sunlight, dizzy with the sweet smell of lilac mingled 
with a muskier scent that was Frodo's own.  At this moment, he had 
all he desired.  How could he ever want more?

As he lightly kissed the back of Frodo's neck, then nibbled one 
ear, Frodo wriggled to press back against him.  With that back-
side brought so close to his groin, Sam recalled how it had felt 
to take Frodo--how warm and smooth and tight inside, and how 
those thrilling ripples of pleasure had run through him with 
each thrust--and suddenly, he _did_  want something more... if 
only he were up to it so soon after the first time.

"Can we do it again?" he asked.  "That is, once I've had a chance 
to rest up?" 

"Of course."  

"Did you really like it?"

"Oh, yes. It was wonderful."  Frodo wriggled some more, twisting 
around to lie on his back.  Sam propped himself up on one elbow 
over him.  "Would you like to find out how it feels, Sam?  I'll 
show you.  We could do it the other way next."

"If you want to.  Only, I was thinking- well- wanting, if you take
my meaning-" he blushed, "to do what I did before."

Frodo smiled and reached up to wind both arms around Sam's neck 
and give him a kiss.  "There's plenty of time for both.  For so 
much more, once we learn how..."  He turned his head toward the 
foot of the bed; it was only then that they noticed that the book 
had fallen on the floor. 

"Doesn't matter," said Sam.  "We've learned enough, haven't we?  
We know what to do now, and won't be needing that book of yours 
anymore.  I suppose you'll be giving it back?"

"No, not yet." Frodo laughed softly.  "I've only read about half-
way through, and I mean to finish it.  Every page."  He pulled Sam 
down to him.  "Who knows what other marvelous things we'll find?"

!~|end|~!