Iris was glad she took one of the ponies into Hobbiton that morning. She had come back to Bag End 3 (as they now called their home) loaded with sacks. She was equally glad the rain was over, and grateful that the change in weather brought cooler temperatures. In order for her plan to work, she needed cooler air.

“Whatever it is you’re working on, it must be very important.” Iris stood smiling in the doorway to his study. Frodo hadn’t heard her come into the smial. He was faintly surprised when he glanced outside and noticed it was not raining.

“You are home early,” he said, putting aside his charcoal. He was stranded in a sea of crumpled paper wads on the floor. Working out complicated mathematics for an amortized loan to Dibble Culvert made him feel as if he had been swimming against the tide all afternoon. His left arm lay cold and lifeless in the sling and his headache had returned. “Is anything wrong in town?” he said, massaging his right temple.

Iris walked over and gave him a quick kiss. “Nothing wrong. Opal is taking my patients this afternoon. But I’ve a request. Would you mind not coming into the living room until I get you? I’ll answer the door bells too. I’ve a surprise for you. That is, if you’ll cooperate.” She smiled enigmatically and rested her hands upon his shoulders.

“All right,” Frodo said, closing his eyes in appreciation for the tender touch. He wondered if she could feel his weariness through the tension in his shoulders and neck. He knew she could see the dark circles under his eyes.

“Let me bring you something,” she whispered.

‘Ah, she can feel it,’ he thought.

Frodo continued to work on the annuity schedule for the mill. Figuring compounded interest for a multi-year loan was not his favorite thing in the world to do. But Bilbo had insisted he study advanced mathematics, and now that study was paying off. Very few hobbits knew their multiplication tables, and fewer still could master a subject as complex as this. Frodo knew that was the real reason Fredigar Bolger sent Dibble over to him.

Frodo again lost track of the time; absorbed in a long division problem scrawling across the page. He looked up upon realizing that Iris was quietly standing by his left elbow, tea service in hand. He stopped his work at the smell of honey-baked scones and strong jasmine tea.

“Um…wonderful,” he said between bites. “Are you going to join me?” Their thoughts were interrupted by the cheerful jingle of the front door bells.

“I’ll get it,” Iris quickly said, rising to leave the study. “Remember, you promised to stay here until I give the word.” She teasingly wagged her forefinger at him.

“Yes, dear. Anything you say, dear,” Frodo slyly joked. The two enjoyed word games and teasing each other with trite monikers whenever they could slip one into their conversations. Iris rolled her eyes as she left the room. Frodo was smugly pleased at his jest. His headache was receeding too.

As he leaned back into his chair, he could hear the sounds of someone coming into the hallway and being led into the back portion of the smial. A curious quiet rolling sound followed the soft padding of hobbit footsteps down the polished oaken hallway floor. Frodo listened carefully, trying to discern anything about the mysterious visitor he was not allowed to see. He could faintly hear Iris whispering, and a female voice answered in equally low tones. He couldn’t quite place the name belonging to the voice, but was sure he had heard it before.

He had finished the soothing jasmine tea and a couple of the honey-laced sconces and had closed up his work for the day when Iris returned to the study carrying his dark green bath robe. He took it from her outstretched arm, one eyebrow raising in a silent question.

“Yes,” she winked, “please change in here. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Iris smiled and left the room, gently closing the door behind her. As Frodo began to remove his clothes he could hear music softly floating through the house. Harp music. Gentle, soothing melodies. Frodo lightly shook his head in wonder at what Iris had planned for him. What was normally a horrible day of remembrance and shadowy pain was turning into an evening of mystery and music.

He removed the sling, letting his aching arm hang almost useless at his side. He could control some movement in the hand, but the old shoulder wound protested every time he moved it. He felt a bit awkward with a guest in the house and him being dressed only in his robe. He was about to pull on his breeches and suspenders when Iris reappeared.

“Oh, no you don’t,” she shook her finger at him. “Robe only, if you please.” She was also wearing her robe, and her hair was lightly braided in one large plat hanging down her back.

“What about our guest?” he asked, putting the breeches back atop the pile of clothes lying in his chair.

“She is situated so that she will not see a thing. And I’ve arranged for her to quietly slip away at the appropriate time.” Iris winked again and pulled him into her embrace, fishing a long white goose feather from a pocket and rubbing it about his ear tips as she kissed him.

Frodo was faintly shocked. Iris seldom planned anything as elaborate as this evening. Her work kept her too busy and preoccupied for more than spontaneous shows of affection. Most times it was Frodo who planned their intimate encounters.

Where Iris was leading him, Frodo hadn’t a clue, but the feather made him break the kiss. He couldn’t help himself. “I guess I am ticklish tonight,” he giggled, rubbing his tingling right ear with his hand and blushing at how absolutely silly he felt. ‘Like a tweenager,’ he mused.

“That means you are not relaxed, Mister Baggins,” Iris replied, tapping his nose thrice with the feather. Her green eyes glowed with mischievousness. “I have just the thing for you. Just what the doctor ordered.” She took his hand, her warm fingers playing with his cool ones. “But I must insist you keep your eyes closed until I tell you to open them. Can you do that, or may I blindfold you?”

Frodo’s mind was instantly thrown into a tangle of strong emotions. Could he totally submit to her will and let her blindfold him? He knew Iris knew of his reluctance to be blindfolded, ever since he and Sam were forced to endure blindfolds during the Quest. And yet she was asking him if he trusted her enough to do it.

He could feel his heart thumping faster with remembered dread. And yet, at the same time, he was aroused to think of letting go and letting her have her way with him. Tangled memories of Faramir’s men and the silent Elvish guards of Lothlorien warned against loosing his sight again. But it was for her….

It was a combination of trust and lust which finally won over fear. He looked directly into her eyes; his robin’s egg blues to her twinkling summer grass greens. “Blindfold,” he whispered, instantly breaking out into a slight sweat of anticipation.

His heart pounded anew as she slipped the feather into the right pocket and produced a grey silk handkerchief from the left. She draped the silk across his shoulders and pulled him back into a kiss, letting her hand slip down the outside of his robe, around his hip, and reaching to caress the manifestation of his excitement. “Now, now, Mister Baggins,” she breathed into his open mouth as they separated, “mustn’t become overly excited just yet.”

Frodo took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on the soothing harp music as Iris bound the silk across his eyes. “It is very, very difficult to keep from becoming excited with you around, Miss Proudfoot.”

She ran her hand down his shoulder and arm and took his hand. “Come with me, my love,” she whispered to him.

He knew they were going into the living room just next door down the hallway, but being blindfolded and hearing the music become slightly louder as they walked hand-in-hand down the corridor was a bit unnerving. Iris opened the door and lead him inside, closing the door behind her.

The first thing Frodo noticed was the heat. The room was definitely warm. He actually felt very comfortable. And he knew if he thought the room was warm, then it must actually be quite hot for Iris. He could hear the fire crackling, hissing and popping somewhere at his right side. But light seemed to be coming from everywhere. He could sense a glow even through the blindfold.

The next thing he noticed was the smell. Honey. And flowers. Some sort of flower. Something she used for teas. Something Sam grew in the Bag End gardens out back in the center of the herb garden next to the birdbath. Delicate little white flowers with yellow centers. Chamomile. That was it. The room smelled like chamomile tea with honey. But much, much stronger. He could almost taste the honey in the air. And something else. Something exotic.

Iris took him by the arm and led him to the center of the room. “It’s just you and I here,” she whispered. “Step up a little.”

His foot touched something soft and furry. ‘Ah, the sheepskin rug,’ he immediately thought. ‘But raised up a bit.’ Multiple layers of rugs with the oh-so-soft round sheepskin rug on top. Very springy under foot. Another layer of softness upon his senses. She turned him so that he was now facing the fireplace, judging from the increased heat source.

He could feel her untying the belt, and felt the robe slip off his shoulders. He stood there in the center of the living room, naked, and yet warm, with the exception of the perpetually cold spot on his shoulder and his eyes bound with the grey silk.

He remembered a time long, long ago, when he had felt this warm and free from care. Summer. A very hot summer. He was 15 years old. He had skipped out of his chores at the old stifling Brandy Hall and went skinny dipping all by himself at a secluded backwater pool by the river. And had lain on a sun-baked bolder in the sizzling afternoon sun to dry off. Naked to the sky and the air, relishing a rare lazy afternoon by himself and contentedly masturbating in the sunshine.

He came back out of the memory when he heard the soft ‘shush’ of another silk robe falling to the floor. “Iris?” he asked, suddenly unsure of himself.

“Lie down on your stomach.” Her voice sounded different. It was not a request. It was a command. “Trust me,” she purred into his ear as a feather teased his kneecap. It startled him – being a touch in an unexpected location. But he did as he was bid, and settled himself onto the soft rug. He found a pillow for his head and relaxed into the warmth of the golden mist about his blinded eyes.

“Spread your legs a bit more.”

So exotic. He wanted to tear the blinders from his eyes and see what she was planning. Instead, he acquiesced, exposing himself to the merciless feather. It traveled from the back of his knee, up the inside of his thigh, and circled about his exposed balls.

Even though he still wore the grey silk ribbon about his eyes, Frodo would have shut them anyway under the barrage of sensations. He yielded himself to the warmth and touch and smells of the room. A deep “Ummmmm” was all he could manage as the tightness in his neck and shoulders loosened and the tightness in his groin increased.

Deliciously warm hands dripping with fragrant, hot oil caressed his buttocks, moving in lazy circles in and around and out and over. Exotic spice mingled with the honey and oil.

“Don’t forget to breathe, my love.” More oil was drizzled onto the small of his back, and the unseen hands moved ever so achingly slowly in strong waves up and down his spine. He sensed she was kneeling between his splayed legs, her strong fingers returning again and again to massage every muscle of his back and legs; twin breasts occasionally kissing his skin as she reached upwards. The nimble fingertips made infrequent side journeys around and between his thighs as if he needed a reminder of pleasures to come.

He became lost in the sensations. Warm. He was so comfortably warm. The music floated in from the hallway from the unseen harpist. Iris never stopped the massage. It traveled up from his feet to his calves, and then to his hamstrings and buttocks. Frodo thought he would surely get a chance to roll over and finish what Iris had begun, but she would not let him.

“Ah ha…no you don’t, Mister Baggins,” she lightly slapped a butt cheek as he moved to flip over. “You lay back down and relax or I shall have to leave the room.”

“Moon and Stars and Sun and all the Vala forbid that you should leave now,” he grumbled as he lay back down and Iris continued her massage. “But if you keep massaging my, um, front by reaching between my legs, well…the Moon and Stars and Sun and all the Vala would be forced to agree that you are not playing fair.”

“I never said I was going to play fair,” Iris smugly replied. She continued upwards, massaging his back and neck, and then down each arm and hand. Frodo felt drowsy and happy and very, very relaxed. He even thought he could feel a trickle of sweat rolling down his spine. ‘What a luxury,’ he lazily thought.

Frodo looked for all the world to be asleep lying on his stomach; completely and utterly relaxed. The music had stopped some time ago at the prearranged time. Iris knew the harpist was already on her way back to Hobbiton. But when Iris’ hands stopped, he took a deep breath and sighed contentedly.

“You may turn over now,” she quietly said.

Frodo found to his surprise that his left arm wasn’t lifeless. He was able to turn himself over without effort. He could feel her beside him, and he reached out blind hands to find his beloved. Iris quickly straddled his torso, and with a firm grip, held down his right hand at his side. She breathed her hot breath onto his jaw line before licking a long trail from his chin down his throat, coming at last to his left shoulder. She teased him with her hot tongue and sharp nibbles all across his shoulder and breast.

He didn’t even notice that it was his left hand which firmly interlocked in her damp, curly hair, directing her sensuous hot mouth downward. The warmth and music and massage and the very, very distracting blindfold had succeeded in turning Frodo’s mind from any thoughts of pain. All he could think about now was seeing her. Seeing Iris. Between his legs.

As he wrenched off the now-annoying silk with his left hand, Iris released his right and stood.

He was bedazzled. Hundreds of candles. They were everywhere. They dominated the room. All sizes and shapes. On the mantle. On tables. On platters and trays set on the floor. All burning brightly and twinkling like a hundred miniature golden stars. An extra large grouping of them surrounded the roaring fireplace.

The furniture had been pushed back against the walls, leaving a large area in the center of the room. He was lying on a small stack of rugs. He recognized the rug from their bedroom, the old rag rug on top of it, and…Sam’s living room rug on top of that! Then their fine combed sheepskin rug on top of the others.

Iris stood to one side, back lighted by the mass of candles still fiercely burning. He shifted the pillow to be under his head, and added a second one in order to better enjoy the final sensation of sight.

She was bathed in sweat, both from the heat of the room and from her exertions during the massage. But she didn’t complain. As Frodo watched, she lightly toweled off, and then returned to the warm massage oil. There was no need to try to hide his rising excitement as he watched his wife liberally apply the oil all over her own body. She stood, glistening in the candlelight as he stroked himself, her desire as plain to read as his own.

She walked over and straddled his prostrate form. “Shall I continue to massage your front, my lord?” she winked. “You seem to have a swelling which needs to be brought under control. I think a vigorous full-body massage could do the trick.”

Frodo could only groan his approval as Iris lay her oil-slicked body on top of his, supporting her torso on her hands as he sought and found his treasure. The sensations were heightened by the previous hour of sensuous touch, the heady aroma and warmth from the myriad candles, plus the heated and spiced oil all over their bodies. Iris flowed over and around him; oil and sweat from the two mingling freely across their bellies and breasts and hips. Her hair came undone and rich brown curls cascaded to curtain the lovers’ fevered faces.

And with a rush, the Moon and Sun and Stars and the Vala themselves blessed their union. And Frodo would never again think of October 6th as a day of pain; only as a Evening of Light.