Then Sam reached the buttons of Frodo’s collar and stopped, staring silently at him, asking for permission.
“Don’t stop Sam, don’t stop! I want to feel your hands on me.”
With shaking fingers, Sam slowly started to unbutton Frodo’s shirt, until it was totally open and out of his breeches. The young gardener parted it, revealing the white, soft skin of his master’s chest.
Frodo smiled shyly and let the shirt drop from his shoulders and fall onto the grass.
What Sam had admired breathlessly from the bathroom window was now exposed before him, ready to be touched.
Sam waited no longer. Wrapping his arms around that fine, slender body, warm and silky to his hands, he held Frodo close to him, dropping a trail of butterfly kisses along his neck and shoulders. He felt his master’s body tremble in his embrace, like a tiny flower in the breeze.
“Oh Sam, how I wanted to feel this, to feel your hands, so warm …” Then he bent his head and kissed Sam’s neck, licking his ear, taking the tip into his mouth and sucking it gently. Sam let out a soft moan, which fell warm and moist on Frodo’s shoulder.
“Your clothes, Sam,” Frodo whispered in his ear, pulling the shirt out of his lover’s breeches and sliding a searching hand up his back. “I want to feel you skin, I want to see all of you.”
There was no need to repeat the invitation, because Sam was already taking off his own shirt, revealing his golden tanned chest.
With trembling hands, the two hobbits worked on their breeches, letting them slide down to their ankles and pushing them aside, so that there was no more fabric on their bodies.
As they lay down on the soft grass, their hands started moving in a series of caresses, slender fingers and calloused palms dancing on arms, shoulders, bellies and legs, on skin of pale moon and golden sun, searching for secrets and finding pleasures, while their mouths were leaving wet trails across both their bodies.
Frodo was lost in his feelings. Sliding his lips over Sam’s chest, stroking his fingers in the soft, golden curls, kissing his neck, licking his puckered nipples; he was drunk with love and wanting, inebriated by the warm and earthy scent of Sam’s skin, a faint smell of musk and sweat barely detectable. Most of all, he was being driven mad by the sensation of Sam’s erection, hard against his hip.
Sam could not stop stroking Frodo’s fine torso with both his palms, licking and kissing that white, smooth skin, the scent of fresh lavender tickling his nostrils. He was caressing his master with desire, but also with care and reverence, as if he was the most precious creature in all the Shire. And for Sam, Frodo certainly was.
He concentrated on Frodo’s rosy nipples and was really amazed by the way they reacted to every stimulation, how they hardened inside his mouth when he was sucking them, making Frodo arch his back and reach almost in a frenzy for his hair, pulling him closer, moaning with pleasure and whispering Sam’s name.
“How can it be, Mr. Frodo? How can you love me?” asked Sam in wonder. “You are the finest hobbit I’ve ever seen, even finer than the most beautiful lass, while I’m just a gardener, and not beautiful at all …”
Frodo silenced him with a kiss and entwined his legs with Sam’s, furry feet gently stroking his calves. In the process, their arousals met and brushed for a brief moment, hot and moist, and the exquisite friction made both hobbits gasp.
“Stop saying such foolish things, Sam, I don’t want to hear them … I love everything about you, because you can talk to my heart, because you love and respect life. Because you give sense to my own life. I love the way you look at me and make me mad about you … You are beautiful to me Sam, and the way my body is reacting should tell you that.”
