Title:  The Lord of the Thing:  Generation (Se)X; Book
One; Chapter Four:  A Short-cut to Merry

Author:  Unbegrenzt, my sexy little self.

Summary:  Pippin's had enough.  The sexual tension is
just too much for his sizable Took genitals to handle.
Time to make a break for Merry.

Warnings:  Humor, Parody, a mention of Jurassic Park
II. (Don't GOOOO!!)

Pairings:  Sam/Frodo, Sam/Anonymous Elf, Frodo/Gildor,
Sam/Various Maggot Lads, Frodo/Various Maggot Lads,
Merry/Pippin

Rating:  Shit... ugh R/NC-17 (Yes, in my fics... even
the RATINGS are in love!)

Disclaimer:  Hobbits, Elves, Wizards, Dwarves, Valiant
Men, Not-So-Valiant Men, Orcs, Gollum, Lidless Eye,
Tom the Bomb, as well as various other brilliant
characters and places belong to Prof. J.R.R. Tolkien. 
The Wombat belongs to me.

Feedback:  Give it to me right where it counts, baby.
*******

Chapter IV:  A Short-cut to Merry

In the morning, Frodo awoke with a pleasant buzz.  He
was lying across Sam in a bower, which was quite torn
apart in evidence of last night's activities.  The air
was strangely fragrant, and Frodo breathed it in
deeply, recognizing the scent of lingering Elf body
odor.  Smiling with sweet memory and licking his lips,
Frodo jumped up, startling Sam awake, and went out.

Pippin was sulking moodily near the edge of the wood. 
There was no sign of the Elves.

"They're gone," he said, when he heard Frodo's
distraught whimper.  "But at least they left us some
grub.  I didn't want to leave you or Sam any, but I
was worried what that Gamgee would think of eating for
breakfast if there wasn't any bread left."  Pippin
admitted this last with a little shudder of fear and
revulsion as Sam came trundling over.

"Food," he grunted, looking bleary-eyed.  Pippin
pointed desperately at the platter of stale bread and
Sam commenced feeding.

"You sure know how to pick your pets, Frodo," muttered
the Took, aghast at Sam's rather non-existent table
manners.  

Frodo's gaze caught fire as he watched Sam
devour the frugal meal.  'If he can *eat* that
violently...' he thought naughtily.  

Pippin didn't seem to notice the predatory gleam of
sexual hunger dancing around in Frodo's unnaturally
wide eyes.  

"Do you think we might see any of those Figures
today?"
the young hobbit asked innocently.

"Mmm-hmm," answered Frodo, in a dream-like state.  He
reached down and ran his fingers through Sam's matted
hair.  "Now leave us in peace... I want *Sam*," he
added, and Sam grunted his enthusiasm around a
mouthful of bread.

"Good heavens!" squeaked Pippin.  "At breakfast?"  He
retreated towards the edge of the green, whimpering
and cursing to himself.  Neither Sam nor Frodo noticed
that he had taken his pack with him.

By the time Sam had finished ravishing the stale
bread, Frodo was quite ready to ravish him in turn.

"Did you talk to Gildor about... you know... the
sniffing?" Sam asked, turning and nipping lightly at
Frodo's erect... nose.

"We didn't discuss it," answered Frodo, grabbing a
fistful of Sam's throbbing... elbow.  "We didn't
really discuss *anything*, actually."

"Well, mine was quite a chatter-box," stated Sam. 
"Not like I minded it much.  Wonderful folk, Elves,
sir!  Wonderful!"

"Indeed," agreed Frodo gravely.  "Do you like them
still, now that you've had one of them?"

"They seem a bit above my likes and dislikes, so to
speak," answered Sam huskily.  "They are quite
different from what I expected-- so old, but not so
gnarly, and so gay and queer, as it were."

"Oh, Sam!" exclaimed Frodo, licking Sam's hard...
toe-nail?  "Talk dirty to me, Sam.  I want you to
grind my bones to make your stale elven bread!"

Sam's reply was muffled by the smooth and delightfully
soft flesh of Frodo's left buttock. 

*****

"Fuck," Frodo observed, accurately assessing the
situation.  He extricated himself from under Sam,
giving the gardener's right knee one last nibble for
good measure.  "Why do I always have to be on the
bottom?" he asked, whining.  "It doesn't matter who
I'm with:  You, Gandalf, Pippin... You're all the
same!"

"Now, now, Mr. Frodo, sir.  Don't go throwing a hissy.
It's nothing really... You're just..."

"What?" snapped Frodo irritably.  "I'm just *what*?"

"Well, no matter how violent a mood you seem to be in,
you're always just begging to be the penetratee... And
you shriek like a tom-cat who has just been impaled
when it happens, if you'll pardon my saying so, sir." 

Frodo considered this for a moment.

"And you *like* that?  The whole 'dying-cat-shrieking'
bit?"  Sam nodded earnestly, licking Frodo's toes
apologetically.  A small smile crept over the
Thing-bearer's lips.  "Good lad," he said.

"I'm not the same as Mr. Pippin, am I?" Sam asked, his
tongue trailing up Frodo's leg to the knee.  Frodo
moaned, feeling himself become aroused all over again.

"No, my little Sex-Monster... Oh, no!"  Frodo
straightened, suddenly upset.  His lusty gaze had
wandered over Sam's shoulder and had come to rest on
the packs.  The *two* packs.  "Pip's gone, Sam!"  Sam
sat up, trying like only a stubborn Gamgee can try to
keep a straight face.

"That's too bad," he offered dully.

"No, Sam!  You don't understand!  We *have* to find
him!  Do you realize what Merry will *do* to us if he
finds out that we *lost* Pippin?  Don't you have any
idea what he's *capable* of?  He's a Brandybuck, Sam! 
A Brandybuck!"  Frodo sucked in frantic gulps of air,
clearly hysterical.  "I'm too hot to die!" he wailed,
"and more than one or two pervy hobbit fanciers agree!
Imagine the trouble, and the upset that would be
caused if I were to perish!  It's not just *our* lives
in danger here, Sam... The fate of the very writer of
this sordid tale, the thief of our names and Universe,
hangs in the balance!  She could be forced to write
something *tasteful*!  I just won't have it!"  

Sam blinked.  Once.  Twice.

"Run that all by me again?" he suggested.  Frodo gave
an exasperated sigh.

"Never mind!  The point is, Pippin *must* be found. 
Everything depends on it!"  Sam twiddled his thumbs. 
"If you don't help me look for him, Sam Gamgee, I'll
never let you doink me again.  Ever!"

Sam had jumped up, dressed and flung on his pack
before one could say: 'Sam had jumped up, dressed and
flung on his pack.'

*****

Pippin plunged blindly through bush and briar, relying
solely on his Merry-dar to lead him safely through the
small patch of wood.

"Stupid Frodo!" he spat.  "Stupid Sam!  Stupid
Stupid-heads!"  No one but Merry would ever understand
the depth of his rage.  He'd only had--what-- three
different fecks in as many days?  It was the least
he'd gotten since... well, since he was very young. 

It just wasn't fair.  What did that Gamgee-pimple have
that he didn't have?  'Besides a violent appetite,'
Pippin thought bitchily.  "I need a drink," he mutter
aloud.  "But, damnit!  The Golden Perch is probably
the first place they'll look!  S'pose I'd better stick
to the Wilderness, then.  Merry's sure going to give
it to them when he finds out--"

At that moment, a high-pitched shriek filled the air. 
It was definitely unhobbitish... 

Well, on second thought, Pippin realized that there
was only one hobbit who made that sort of noise. 
"That's right, you nasssty CUNT!!" Pippin yelled
defiantly. 
"I know that's you, Frodo!  I can tell!  Enjoy it
while you can, but--"

A modified shriek filled the air, and if Pippin had
been born a few millennia later, he would have perhaps
been reminded of the raptors from Jurassic Park II. 
As it was, the sound was scary and unhobbitish enough
for Pippin to realize that it wasn't Frodo.  He
quickened his pace.

******

Frodo dried his eyes and glared bitterly down at his
breeches.  They were soaked clean-through, and not
because of Sam's antics.

The strange shrieking noise had caught them off-guard,
as they scrambled toward the wood after Pippin.  Now,
Sam was attempting simultaneously to comfort Frodo
while avoiding the wet spot.

Frodo wanted very much to fade out of existence.

When this did not happen, the embarrassed hobbit took
off his pack, then rummaged around in it for his spare
pair.  Once he found them, he snootily ordered Sam to
turn around and not look.

"But, Mr. Frodo, I've already--"

"Bitch!  I told you not to look!" Frodo snapped,
hobbling on one leg while trying to get the other one
into the breeches.

"Fine, fine.  Geez.  Don't worry...  I mean, I almost
messed in my own knickers too, sir.  Don't make such a
big thing of it!  You--"

Frodo hissed and Sam shut the fuck up, like the
obedient whore he was.  He dared look only when he
heard Frodo grunt as he hefted his pack onto his back.

"Let's go.  The little runt can't have gotten far,"
Frodo growled.

******

After hours of relying on Merry-dar, Pippin still
hadn't found his way out of the wood.

******

"Well, Mr. Frodo, maybe if we sing a little tune..."
Sam suggested.  He was sweating buckets and swatting
at various nasty-looking insects.  They had been
tromping through the wood for hours on end, and
although they had yet to hear another rapto-- uh,
*Figure*, that is, Sam was getting awfully nervous
about going hungry.  How long had it been since his
last meal?  He simply could not recall, and to his
horror, he found that Frodo was beginning to look
tasty, in a completely unsexual way.

"Tune my ass," Frodo replied curtly.  "I've a better
idea.  If Pip's within earshot, he won't be able to
resist *this*... being the skanky little prostitute he
is."  

Sam arched an eyebrow as Frodo cupped his hands around
his mouth and shouted shrilly:  "HO!  HO!  HO!"  Sam
snapped his fingers.

"Hey, I know that one..."

"Not the song, you idiot.  It's the 'Ho' call.  All
sex-starved little bitches within twenty miles will
flock to me."

Sam thought this over.

"Are you sure that's a good idea, sir?  I mean, isn't
that... that *shrieking thing* somewhere close by?"

Frodo's voice broke off abruptly in mid-ho.  He walked
over and gave Sam's butt a little pinch.

"You're damn smart for a gardener, Sam... Sam?  Sam,
why are you looking at me like that?  Sam?  Sweetie? 
Uh, honey... Pumpkin?"

"Pumpkin... Mmmmmm..." replied Sam, licking his chops.
A string of saliva dripped suggestively from a corner
of his evilly grinning mouth.

Frodo narrowly missed messing his spare pair as he
squealed off into the bush, Sam close at his heels.

*******

"I wanna li-li-li-lick you from your head to your
TOES..." hummed Pippin, still wandering somewhere in
the middle of the small wood.  At least he had his
naughty thoughts of Merry for company.

*******

With one last desperate burst of speed, Frodo exploded
out from under the cover of the trees, and into a wide
field.  Across it, he could just barely make out a
humble little shack.  He shuddered.  He looked from
the shack and back towards the wood.  Back and forth. 
Back and forth.

Making his decision, he bolted for the shack, hoping
like mad that Farmer Maggot was either a very
forgiving, or very forgetful soul.

*******

"But I need to kn-kn-kn-know wh-what's your
fan-ta-ta-SYYYYYYYY!!"  The song was starting to get a
little repetitive the five-hundred-and-fifty-fourth
time through, but Pippin found that he could not get
it out of his head.  He stared up at the canopy,
willing his genitals to choose the shortest path to
Merry *this* time.

*******

Frodo panted down the old road leading up to the
shack.  Sam was gaining on him, and fast.  Frodo felt
that he was throwing himself forward with each step,
and just missing the greedy claws of his
vegetarian-gone-cannibalistic gardener each time.

With a last mighty lunge, he tripped over his massive
feetsies and landed with a crunch, swallowing a
mouthful of gravel.

"Arf-Arf-Arf!" barked a dog.  Now Frodo was beyond
simply wetting his pants.  He knew that dog.  Oh, yes.
Old Cleaver, the rabid hound of Maggot with a taste
for rascally hobbit ass.

Frodo whimpered, curling up in a fetal position and
waiting for it all to end.  Either Sam would get him,
and he would be devoured, or Cleaver would get him,
and he would be devoured.

"Whoah there, Cleave-boy!" barked a hobbit.  Sam,
foaming at the mouth, was just about to set in on his
master when he heard the unfamiliar voice.  Caught
between his urge to eat, and his urge to protect
Frodo, he contented himself with licking Frodo's ear
possessively.  

"What would you two lads be wanting 'round here?"
asked the crotchety one, leaning over and patting the
head of his now deceptively passive dog.

Sam's eyes widened.

"FOOD!" barked Sam.

*******

"Ah-ah!  You make it so good, I don't wanna leave, but
I need to kn-kn-kn-know--"

******

Frodo had been lent a spare pair of breeches and was
now seated at a large table, which had been
unabashedly ravished by Sam.

The Thing-bearer whistled and twiddled his thumbs
nervously, screwing up his face and trying to look
like anyone but himself.  Of course, this was
impossible.  I mean, watch the movie, people.

"Aye," announced Maggot suddenly, around a belch.  "I
daresay you still like my lads, Mr. *Baggins*."  Frodo
whimpered and hid behind a now satiated Gamgee.  The
Farmer laughed.  "Ah yes, I recollect the time when
young Frodo Baggins was one of the worst young rascals
of Buckland.  But it wasn't the lads I was thinking
of.  I had just heard the name Baggins before you
turned up."

Frodo peeked out behind Sam, and managed to look
vaguely interested though he was, indeed, still rather
petrified.  When he thought of what Maggot had done to
him all those summers ago after catching him meddling
about with his lads...  Frodo shuddered.

"Well," continued the Farmer, "This Figure shows up,
all decked out in black, and he's sniffing around,
see?  Burgo (he's my oldest, if you remember, Mr.
Baggins) nearly had a heart attack when that nose
started just ACCOSTING him, see?  In bad places.  And
you know what I do to strangers who I catch sniffling
around in my ladses pantaloons, don't you, Mr.
Baggins?"  Frodo gulped.  "I don't think that chap
will be showing his face, er, NOSE, rather, around
here any time soon.  Heh-heh."

"Well, I'm glad of it, Mr. Maggot," replied Frodo
gratefully.  "But that doesn't change the fact that
I'm scared shitless of traveling out in the open with
those nose-guys running around... especially at
night!"

"Give us a ride?" Sam asked sleepily, rubbing his
swollen belly.  Oh, rephrasal... Sam asked sleepily,
rubbing his belly which was swollen from, and ONLY
from, his intake of food.

********

"Merry!" wailed Pippin.  "Merry!"

Somehow, Pippin had made his way out of the wood and
onto a road.  It was dark, he was scared, and his
genitals were THROBBING with the effort of seeking out
their One True Pleasurer.

Suddenly, he heard a quiet shuffling sound to his
right.  A tiny 'meep' noise was emitted.  Pippin
stiffened.  

"Not a raptor, not a raptor, not a raptor," he prayed,
squeezing his eyes shut.

"Pip!" cried Merry, bursting out of the tall grass. 
"I've been looking all over for you guys!  What have
you all been up to... Hey, wait... Where *are* the
other guys?"

"Oh, Merry!" Pippin sobbed, launching himself on his
object of feral desire.  He did not care that they
were in the middle of a much-traveled road.  "Merry, I
was SCARED!" he cried, burying his face in Merry's
groin.

********

"You can hide here in the back of the cart.  Yeah,
there... Under the cover.  That's it," said Maggot as
Frodo and then Sam scrambled into the rickety wagon.

Farmer Maggot climbed up and snapped the reins.  Just
then, Mrs. Maggot came bursting out of the shack door,
fuming.

"You be careful of yourself, Maggot!" she called. 
"Don't go messing around with any foreigners, and come
straight back, or you'll get it good!"

Maggot coughed, waved half-heartedly and whipped his
pony nearly to death trying to get as far away as was
hobbitly possible from his jealous wife in the least
amount of time.

In the back of the cart, Frodo laughed: from their
hiding places in the rear of the wagon, the Maggot
lads were rising.

"Frodo!" giggled Burgo teasingly.  "So *nice* to see
you again.  Hey... Who's your friend?"

***********

Coming soon (if I get enough feedback):  Chapter V: 
Merry's Punishment Unmasked