|
April 26, 2003
~*~
FRODO’S DREME
~*~
He’ll ask her for a dance. That’s how it will start.
It won’t matter that she can’t be bothered to give him the time
of day under normal circumstances – this is a party and the circumstances are
not, at the moment, normal. Besides which, he has personally witnessed at least
four lads deliver a cup of wine to her on at least six occasions (and yes, he
has been counting) and, though she only actually drank two (and yes, he counted
those as well), perhaps she’s in a good enough mood that she’ll ignore the fact
that she normally can’t stand him. Perhaps she will smile and will take his
hand when he offers it, allow him to lead her into the midst of the dancers and
whirl her until her head is spinning dizzily enough that she’ll forget entirely
that she is far too beautiful and refined for the likes of the orphaned
riverhobbit, just taken in by his kindly Hobbiton ‘uncle’.
From there it won’t be so far of a stretch to believe that she might allow him
to pull her close when the music slows, when the dance requires that they close
the distance between them. It won’t allow for their hips to press flush, for
this is a party, after all, and children are about and it simply wouldn’t do for
people to be pressing against one another in the way their eyes say their minds
and bodies want them to go. But they’ll be close enough that he’ll be able to
feel her heat and she his and her eyes will lock onto his own, smoke and her lip
will curl in the tiniest of smiles.
And he’ll just know.
It will be at this point that she’ll push into that forbidden space between them
a little, brush against him ever so slightly, and she’ll peer about coyly,
making sure they are not observed, then she’ll tip her chin, peer up at him
through her lashes and let that smile smoulder. Her eyes will be dark and smoky,
their normal seagrass colour – oh and he knows that colour well, for it fills
his dreams more nights than he cares to admit – turned to smoked-emerald and a
fire will spark and shimmer behind them. The very tip of a moist pink tongue
will poke from her mouth and run the length of a plump red bottom lip and her
smile will grow, broaden, seductive and knowing.
“Had enough of dancing, yet?” she’ll ask him then and her eyes will flick out
and over the field, stop on a small thicket of oaks and evergreens, where he
happens to know the grass is soft and cool and just high enough to conceal from
prying eyes anyone who might take it into their heads to lie down upon it.
He will nod then because really, there is nothing he needs to say at this point,
is there, and he’ll want to make sure he doesn’t let spill with anything stupid
now, anyway and ruin it all. So, he’ll just answer her smile with a small,
meaningful one of his own and allow her to lead him into the thicket.
It won’t take long for them to get there and no one will mark their leave or
destination because what could they possibly get up to, anyway? She is the most
beautiful lass in the Westfarthing and, adopted 'nephew' to the Master of Bag End or
no, he is still That Odd Bucklander and really – she must just be having him on
or something or maybe taking pity on the poor lad and going off to give him a
quick snog to get him to stop staring before getting back to those lads she’s
really interested in. So, no one will pay them much mind as they make their
way to the tall grasses.
He’ll lay her down on a blanket then and where he’ll get a blanket, he really
couldn’t say but this is his fantasy, after all, and if he wants there to
be a blanket handy then, by stars and fire, there will be a blanket handy.
She’ll go willingly, eagerly and she’ll take hold of his hand as she lies back,
pull him down with her. He will sink down slowly because it wouldn’t do to
crush her and besides which, by this time he will already have a bulge in his
breeches that would make the gammers weep and he wouldn’t want to scare her off
before they’ve even got started.
That won’t be a problem, though, because now she’ll pull him down atop herself,
press her long fingers into the small of his back and press her hips flush
against his. And heat will roll through him, sear a path from his groin to his
chest and he’ll find it difficult to breathe and he’ll gasp, perhaps even dare
to whisper her name. She’ll smile then because she knows all too well the effect
she has on the lads and it will please her to know that he is already putty in
her hands and he won’t mind her knowing it – not at all.
Right about there is when he’ll finally dare to kiss her, press his mouth firm
to hers and finally find out how easy it might be to pry her lips apart with his
tongue. It won’t be very hard at all and he’ll sink into the moist heat of her
mouth, close his eyes and she’ll moan, all sweet and compliant, dig her fingers
into his spine and there will be nothing in the world more reasonable at that
moment than for him to let his hands begin to wander.
He’ll start with those firm, round breasts he’s spent far too much of this past
summer pondering and they’ll feel just as plump and lovely as he’s been dreaming
they would. He’ll feel a nipple peaking through the fabric and the only
reasonable thing to do then will be to unlace her bodice, press his lips against
it and suck it slowly between his teeth.
She’ll arch up then, press her hand to his nape and hold him there and he will
be more than happy to oblige because… well, because he’d be an idiot not to. He
will nip and suckle, breathe in her scent, which will be a mix of honeysuckle
and apricots and a sweet feminine musk that will drive right through to his
bones. It will be at this point that he will begin to recognise that his hips
have begun a smooth rhythm against her thigh and her leg is pressing up between
his own, applying a sweet-soft pressure that may actually turn out to be a
little dangerous if he doesn’t get his act together and soon.
He will let his other hand wander now, pushing aside skirts, gathering them up
and bunching them at her hip and she’ll surge up at his touch, her own hips
moving against him, urging him. And he’ll feel the heat coming off of her in
waves, sliding over his skin, setting it on fire and he’ll find it hard to
breathe then, so he’ll pull his head up, suck in a gulp or two of air. He’ll
look down at her, take in her writhing form, her honey-coloured curls damp and
sticking to her face in a moonlit corona and her eyes, glittering up at him with
need and want. He’ll have to close his eyes then, or risk an explosion
that would rival those famous rockets of Gandalf’s and most definitely would
attract the attention of the partygoers back at the Field.
He is given to know that there is a great deal of linen beneath a lass’s skirts,
what with petticoats and bloomers and knickers and so forth to contend with. But
he is still in Frodo-world at the moment and so those just seem to melt away
like a dream-web of gossamer starlight and his hands are free to seek, explore,
light upon coal-fire and stir sparks as his fingers find moist flesh… press…
stroke. She’ll arch up then, cry out and he’ll need to press his mouth back to
hers to quieten her, push his tongue deep into her mouth as his fingers push
deep inside her body and she’ll want to shout his name and oh, he'll want to hear
her do it but there will still be still the Party to consider, so he'll press his mouth more
firmly even as his fingers plunge deeper, twist, flex.
She will be moaning now, whimpering and grinding down onto his hand and he won’t
be able to help the smile, so he’ll have to pull his mouth away. She will be
beautiful bathed in the moonlight, the sweat on her face and chest glistening
over smooth white skin and he’ll feel the need to taste the salt-sweet of it.
He’ll dip down, sink his teeth lightly into the thin flesh covering her
collarbone, swipe his tongue to flesh-over-bone and somehow that will be the
thing that will send her over the edge. Her hips will buck furiously and he’ll
need to seal his mouth to hers once again and swallow the shrieks that slide up
from her chest, though by this time he will have forgot the Party entirely and
his main concern will be getting out of his trousers before he ruins them for
good and all.
She’ll sense this and, before her cries have even faded to echoes, she will be
at his buttons. They will melt away, as will his trousers, because they are,
after all, still biding in Frodo-world and that’s just the way things should go
at this point. All barriers will be gone between them now and his sweated skin
will be pressed to the conflagration that peers up at him with a wanton smile
and, since she will have hold of him in a demanding grip, the only reasonable
thing to do at this point will be to follow her lead.
She will pull her knees up, deepen her smile, close her eyes and guide him in.
Slick-hot consummation and flame will sear him from bone to flesh, blossom
through his limbs and he’ll groan, grind his teeth. His hips will buck – hard –
and she will dig sharp fingernails into his back. Her mouth will fall open,
breathy sighs sliding smooth and sweet from it and he’ll hear his name on a
moan. He won’t be able to help himself then; he will thrust down, his hips
moving in a rhythm his body knows without thought and he’ll only be able to
watch her as his own movements force her to dig her fingers into the grass and
hold on.
He’ll want to go slow, draw it out, make it sweet and fine and hear those moans
drip from her smile for hours. And he’ll put all of his will into taking his
time, gliding in and out, pressing down and grinding up and turning those moans
into wails and pleas. And for a little while, he will succeed and she’ll ride
along with him on the sweet-hot waves of pleasure as his body moves them both
ever closer to the edges of slick-burning bliss. He might close his eyes then,
let the sensations take him, let her heat burn through him and raze him to ash.
But it won’t be long before she looses a sound that’s too close to a growl and
she will reach up, take a fistful of his hair in both hands and bring his face
down close to hers. She’ll stare up into his eyes, her own eyes twin infernos
that spike right into his soul.
“More,” she’ll demand then and when he smiles knowingly, she’ll smile back, say,
“Harder.”
And he won’t be able to do a single thing then but obey. His hips will drive
down, fast and hard and his spine will curl along her body. He will grip her
hips in both hands and she will arch up into him, her own hips moving along with
his, bucking against him and the heat and the rhythm and the intimate knowledge
that he has brought her to this, that his body is the one that has
set hers afire, will be enough to set his mind to humming.
He will grind into her, thrust and push and she will throw her head back and
shriek his name on a long, drawn-out cry and his hips will snap, his back will
bow. A shout will roll up from his chest and he will try desperately to keep it
behind his teeth but he will fail miserably and for a moment, their voices will
drown out the pipes and strings from the Party behind them.
It will take them some time to come back to themselves and they will share
tender kisses in the grass for a few moments before it occurs to either one of
them that they should probably get themselves in order and make as little a
spectacle of themselves as possible as they rejoin the party. Their clothes will
magically re-appear after a short while and he will stand, help her to her feet.
It will be at this point that he will notice the blanket has disappeared, which
will signal the fact that Frodo-world is beginning to fade and so he’ll draw her
in for one last kiss before the magic is gone completely. She’ll come along
willingly enough, smile sweetly and stroke his cheek.
“I’d like to do this again soon,” she’ll say and Frodo will smile sadly, close
his eyes.
“Oh, I’m sure we will,” he answers and doesn’t add that it will, as always, be
after he closes his eyes tonight and goes alone to his still-new bed in the
burrow under the Hill that doesn’t feel like home quite yet.
He opens his eyes, the little smile still somewhat sad and strange on his face.
The dance has moved on to a lively reel and he watches the blur of colours
before his eyes as bright skirts whirl past him in a warm haze of music and
laughter.
“I was just wondering,” a quiet voice says to his left and Frodo startles, turns
and finds himself peering into seagrass eyes, sparkling with good humour, “if
you plan to stare all night or d’you think you might eventually ask me to
dance?”
Frodo gapes for a moment, blinks. Then he smiles.
He’ll ask her for a dance. That’s how it will start.
~*~
END
Feedback
BACK to Adult Index
BACK to Fanfic Index
BACK to Main Page |
