Title: Self-Reliance
Author: Sue DeNimme (suedenimme2004@yahoo.com)
Pairing: Frodo/Sam
Rating: R
Summary: Sam sees Frodo doing something rather astonishing, and
         seizes the moment.
Disclaimer: These characters were created by J.R.R. Tolkien (please
         forgive me, Professor!).
Feedback: Need you ask?
Archive: Anywhere, so long as you let me know.
Warning: PWP

Author's note: This silly thing was inspired by a remark by 
Elijah Wood.  It's well known, to anyone who has seen the 
closeups of Frodo's hands, that Elijah bites his fingernails.  On 
the Ellen DeGeneres show, he admitted that he has bitten his 
toenails as well, and added that he is very flexible.  Now, a 
certain friend of mine and I have minds that take screaming 
nosedives into the gutter at the least provocation, and my friend 
*BEGGED* me to write a story about Frodo partaking in a certain 
highly unusual activity.  So it's all her fault.

+++

Frodo Baggins had long known he was not like other hobbits.

Oh, it was true he most definitely *was* entirely a hobbit, 
despite the half-serious gossip that floated about from time to 
time.  Aside from small individual differences, all hobbits 
shared certain traits such as diminutive height and large, 
unshod, hairy feet, both of which Frodo possessed; and those who 
remembered his dear departed parents could attest that they too 
were hobbits.  If any Elven or "fairy" blood existed in his 
lineage, it was lost in antiquity, and only an unprovable rumor 
in any event.

But still, there was no denying that in many ways Frodo was, if 
not completely unique, then at least somewhat...different.

There were his looks, for one thing.  Frodo was slender where 
most hobbits were round, pale-skinned where most hobbits were 
ruddy or tanned, and his eyes were much bigger and bluer than 
they had a right to be.  He stood out from the crowd, and in the 
Shire, this was not considered a good thing.

Add to that his rather colorful background -- from the wild young 
orphan of Brandy Hall to the heir of the notorious Bilbo Baggins 
-- his scholarly interests and occasional foreign contacts, his 
frequent solitary wanderings, and the fact that he was nearing 
fifty years old but showed no sign of aging, nor any inclination
toward marrying, and it was no wonder that rumors tended to 
follow Frodo like thunder followed lightning.

All this, everyone knew.  But there were other things about Frodo 
that only he knew.

His biggest secret, though he did not yet think of it that way at 
the time of this tale, was the fact that he possessed a magic 
ring, left to him by Bilbo.  But though this ring would in a few 
years' time turn his life entirely upside down, we are not 
concerned with it here.

There were two secrets of Frodo's that we *are* concerned with 
for purposes of this (probably extremely apocryphal) story.

One of them had to do with his sex life.  Yes, he did have one.  
Masturbation *is* sex, after all.  And as a bachelor living in a 
very strait-laced society, Frodo had no other acceptable outlet 
for his, er, needs.  So he had become rather adept at it; indeed, 
it was even safe to say that he was possibly the Shire's leading 
expert in this activity, though naturally it wasn't something he 
cared to advertise.

The other secret involved the fact that he was probably the only 
hobbit in the Shire -- at least the only one his age -- who could 
place his ankle behind his neck.  (Not that anyone had ever done 
a survey, but that was beside the point.)  Though he was somewhat 
proud of his limberness, Frodo never really displayed it even 
among friends, not since that one time when, in one of his more 
whimsical moods, he had performed his feat in the parlor at Bag 
End in front of Merry, Pippin, and Sam.

The reactions had been mixed.  While Merry had merely stared, 
then shook his head, Pippin had promptly tried to copy Frodo.  
The memory of his young cousin limping about for a week afterward 
was the main reason Frodo now refrained from showing off in 
company.  As for Sam -- Sam had blushed.

It might have occurred to the others to wonder why, if not for 
the fact that Sam blushed at almost anything.

Being an exceptionally well-read and imaginative hobbit, Frodo 
had quite a rich and varied hoard of fantasies stored away in his 
mind, but there was one thing that it had never occurred to him 
to consider as a possibility, until he came across an 
illustration in one of the more obscure Elvish manuals that Bilbo 
had left behind.  (He might never have found the book if he 
hadn't one day gotten it into his head to clean behind one of the 
bookcases in his cousin's old library.)  Naturally, his curiosity 
being piqued, he had to try it.

And all this led to the bizarre sight that greeted Sam's eyes 
when he happened to look into Frodo's bedroom one autumn evening.

Though his work in the garden was well over for the day, Sam had 
returned to Bag End in order to ask whether he should ready the 
soil for begonias or chrysanthemums in that patch of ground down 
by the gate.  At least, that was what he planned to say to his 
master.  The truth was that he wanted to check on Frodo.  Well, 
not just check on him -- *look* at him.

For it so happened that Sam simply liked to look at Frodo.  Any 
excuse would do.  It was all right to do so, he told himself.  
Beautiful things were there to be looked at.  And his master was 
possibly the most beautiful hobbit that had ever walked this 
green earth.  It didn't make him wrong or unnatural to be 
thinking that, so long as it didn't go beyond looking, and so 
long as Frodo never found out and got embarrassed by it.  The 
last thing Sam ever wanted to do was cause his master any sort of 
discomfort or shame.

He let himself, quietly, into the darkened smial.  (There was a 
long-established understanding between him and Frodo that Sam was 
permitted to enter Bag End without asking whenever he needed to.)  
Apparently Frodo had gone to bed; it was quiet.  Well, Sam's 
question could wait, then, but he would look in on his master for 
a moment.  Just to be sure he was all right, of course.

Candlelight shone through the crack of the bedroom door.  He 
listened, but there was no sound of pages turning.  Perhaps Frodo 
had fallen asleep reading.  It had been known to happen before.

He listened again for a long moment, and heard a soft creaking 
sound, mingled with the rustling of cloth on cloth.  What could 
be making it?  In any case, Sam's duty was clear.  He'd better 
put out the candle before something got burnt.

He opened the door a crack.

There, on the bed, was something that at first appeared to be 
some form of strange fleshy sculpture.  As Sam gaped at it, after 
a moment he realized it was actually Frodo.  For some reason, his 
master was curled up, his comely backside pointing at the air, 
supported by the carved wooden headboard, and cushioned by 
pillows.  His legs were bent and feet crossed at the ankles, his 
knees were nearly touching his ears, and his arms were spread for 
stability.  Oh yes, and he was naked.  As the day he was born.

Seeing Frodo naked had been one of Sam's dearest secret dreams 
since his body had begun to mature: right up there with seeing 
Elves.  But somehow this wasn't the way he had pictured it.  And 
what in Middle-earth was Frodo *doing*, anyway?

Sam squinted to see better in the inadequate candlelight.  Frodo 
was bouncing his knees slightly, causing his hips to rock, and 
sliding in and out of his mouth with every rock was -- oh my.  
Was that even possible?  Obviously it was, but...

Somehow he managed not to gasp or squeak out his surprise, having 
the wit to realize that if Frodo were startled while in this 
delicate position, his master could inadvertently do himself an 
injury.  One that would be difficult to explain to the healer.

Sam was still standing there, mesmerized by this spectacle, when 
abruptly, it ended.  Frodo freed his mouth and gracefully rolled 
over to sit upright, facing the headboard, a grimace marring his 
elegant features.  His cock jutted stiffly upward, unsatisfied 
yet still hopeful, as he stretched and rolled his shoulders a 
little before pivoting on his rear, lying down and taking himself 
in hand to commence pleasuring himself in a more conventional 
manner.

*Interesting,* Frodo was musing to himself.  *Novel, even.  But a 
bit awkward to sustain for a long enough time to be useful.  I 
suppose one needs to be as agile as an Elf to really appreciate 
it.*  He let out a philosophical sigh.  *Oh well, it was worth a 
try.*  A pity, though.  He'd never had the experience of being 
sucked, and had always wondered what it was like.  Now he had 
some idea, to be sure, but somehow he had the feeling it wasn't 
the same as having someone else to do it for him.  Living alone 
did have its drawbacks.

The same thing was occuring to Sam, and his heart (among other 
things) went out to his master.  Poor Mr. Frodo.  Surely just 
because he chose not to marry didn't mean he didn't get lonely 
sometimes and simply want to be touched so much that he ended up 
touching himself because there was no one else to do it.  Maybe 
if Sam hadn't been so insistent on keeping to his proper place, 
even when there was no one else to see or judge, Mr. Frodo might 
have been a lot happier in his life.  Sam had been neglectful 
without meaning to be.  Well, he would remedy that.  Right now.

The fact that he had been wanting to do this for years was 
entirely beside the point.

Frodo nearly flew off the bed and hit the ceiling when he felt a 
pair of soft lips pressing against his neck.  At the same time, a 
hand grasped his, the one that was busy, and gently but firmly 
moved it away.  He jerked his head to the side, his heart 
pounding wildly and his eyes popping open, but caught only a 
fleeting impression of sandy curls and a whiff of tea, earth, 
and honeysuckle before the lips moved to cover his own.

"Mmmph!" was all Frodo had a chance to say.  Then, "Wha -- 
ohhhhhhhh uhhhhhh AAAHHH," as Sam's mouth traveled down his body 
in quick teasing hops and settled where it would do the most 
good.

Somehow Frodo must have fallen asleep without noticing, and he 
was dreaming one of his fantasies.  My, but it was vivid.  Very 
similar to a particular favorite of his.  Only without the 
blackberry jam.

In any case, this was *so* much better than doing it himself.  He 
writhed and moaned with abandon, thrusting upwards again and 
again until Sam had to hold his hips down to keep from getting 
choked.  Finally, all too soon for Frodo's liking (but then, 
things had already progressed rather far before Sam ever touched 
him), his pleasure peaked and spilled into the waiting warmth,
until Frodo reluctantly relaxed again into the sheets with a huge 
sigh.

Something was wrong, he thought.  Normally he would have woken up 
just as he came.  He opened his eyes.  Sam was still there.  
Which led Frodo to the conclusion that it had been no dream.

"Sam?" he whispered in disbelief.  "You're -- you're really here, 
aren't you?"

"Yes, sir, that I am," Sam replied, as bashfully as he could with 
his master's seed dribbling out of the corner of his mouth.  He 
wiped it, and watched Frodo anxiously, wondering if he had 
overstepped after all.  It had seemed like an excellent idea at 
the time, but now...

Frodo didn't seem angry, only dazed.  "Why?"

"Well, I came back to ask you something, only you were gone to 
bed, and I looked in on you, just to check, you understand, and I 
saw you -- uh -- "

"Oh."  Frodo blushed so hard that it was visible even in the dim 
candlelight.

Sam hurried on.  "And well, I thought if you were doing that, it 
must be because you'd no one to do it for you, so I thought I 
should, begging your pardon.  I hope I haven't done nothing to 
put myself forward to where I shouldn't be, if you follow me -- "

"I do.  I think."  Frodo sat up.  A strange expression was on his 
face, one that Sam couldn't interpret.  Usually he could read his 
master like a book, but when he couldn't, it frightened him.  
After a moment, Frodo said very quietly, "Sit down, Sam."

With no small trepidation, Sam did.

"Am I to understand correctly that you did that because...because 
you thought it was your obligation?"

"Well, sir, I -- "

Frodo held up a hand.  "Please don't."  Sam shut his mouth, his 
heart sinking, because now he read his master all too clearly.  
"I grant there are some -- 'gentlehobbits', for want of a better 
term -- who do indeed consider such...favors...from their 
servants as no more than their due.  But I thought you knew me a 
little better than that, Sam.  I saw enough of this kind of thing 
at Brandy Hall, and it sickened me, the way some take advantage 
of those who have less power.  You talk of knowing your place.  
Well, I know mine too, Sam, and this isn't it."

Sam had thought before that his Mr. Frodo was the best hobbit in 
the Shire, but this beat all.  He almost grinned in admiration, 
realizing just how good his master was, even when he was wrong.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but that ain't it a'tall.  If anyone 
was taking advantage, as you put it, it was me, not you."

Frodo gave him a puzzled look.

The best way Sam could think of to explain what he meant was to 
take Frodo's hand and guide it to the front of his trousers.  His 
master gasped as he felt the hardness there.

He lifted his wondering eyes to meet Sam's steady gaze.  So, it 
hadn't been duty after all, but desire.

Frodo cleared his throat.  "Ahem.  Well, then."

Suddenly he smiled, and his hands busied themselves at the 
buttons of Sam's trousers.

"Let me help you with that," he said.

- end -