Fingertips

Part Deux

OK... If you have gotten this far, you realize by now that this next section is going to be explicit. If you are likely to become offended by explicit sexual acts (even if they aren't described in explicit ways), please don't read any further. This piece was written for fun and to be enjoyed by those who can enjoy it. If this is NOT you, please stop now.

OK...? So if you continue reading, don't complain if you are shocked, roasted and singed when your underthings combust. You are forewarned.

And now, on with the show....

Part Deux

Though his body betrays his interest, Frodo shakes his head quickly.

“Oh, my love, you are too,… ‘kind’. But really, I would never expect such…ah…” He flushes red and begins to sit up as if suddenly uncomfortable. Your wicked smile fades into one of tender love and your arms tighten gently around his waist.

“Beloved… I know.” You place a quiet kiss on the point of his hip. He shudders. He is still aroused and very sensitive. “You would never expect or ask, I know… but nothing in my life makes me happier than pleasuring you.” You rub your cheek against the soft skin below his navel. “It is my life’s breath to see you rapt with ecstasy, it thrills me beyond compare to feel you move in me, to feel you quicken, to delight you. You don’t have to expect, my sweet, I want to make you happy.”

He hesitates, obviously considering propriety and wondering at your words. He knows that you all love him but sometimes the depth of your devotion still surprises him. A lifetime of bachelorhood and the sacrifices he has made make it difficult for him to think he deserves what so many sweet ladies freely offer. His brow creases in that way you find so endearing and he strokes your hair with his wounded hand. The finger lingers along your jaw and you lean into it like a cat begging to be stroked. “I have such riches here,” he whispers huskily. “In my life and in those I love. I would never ask for more… I cannot.” He is so torn. His eyes glitter in the fading afternoon light. Passion has darkened them, but he is valiantly fighting his desire. In that moment you see that which you love more than your own life – this hobbit whose strength, will, and nobility called to you from across the sea. He is made more beautiful than you have ever seen him by his struggling denial. Grace and selflessness illuminate him like a light from within. His lean, wiry body is tense and tight in your arms and he is up on his elbows looking down at you from across the smooth expanse of his pale chest. His nipples are dark, hard interruptions and the scars he bears a white violence across that tender landscape. He moves your heart almost to breaking and you are overcome with a sweet swoon. You know how hot his desire is, you can feel it still, cradled enticingly between your hanging breasts, and yet his compassion will not let him ask that which you know he desires. He will not ask, but you know it would drive him to ecstasy, and you also know that in pleasing him your own desires are bountifully fulfilled.

You lay your cheek on his tense belly and gently caress the skin there. He stiffens anew and presses even harder against your breast. His lips have gone softly round and full, flushed red with blood. His cheeks have kept their ashamed hue but he cannot stop his rebellious body from giving a true voice to his yearnings. You rub your chin across the soft line where his downy hair begins and Frodo shakes, letting out a low, breathy groan. He is so full and hard from your attentions already, that you know you dare not touch him yet. He would not last, and you DO want him to last, ...just as long as possible. You rub your moist lips across the ever so soft skin above the down. There, and in the hollow of his hip, it jumps and quivers at your touch. Your head swims with the heat. Oh, what rapture it is to feel him move against you like this. You slip your hands down his back and pull his slim hips to your hungry mouth. How sweet is the skin in this sheltered place, where no sun can darken it and no wind can roughen its texture. You nuzzle its velvety smoothness until his stomach muscles seize and his hips jump forward. You hang on, your head reeling from the feeling of his taut body bucking under your mouth, and devour him hungrily. He groans and arches his back, his creamy throat bared to the dim air. You play his sweet body like a fine instrument.

And you haven’t even really touched him yet….

You are on fire. Heat radiates from your most secret places and you can feel every beat of blood as it throbs through that aching space. You have never felt so sensitive and know that one touch from him would send you far beyond reason. Your head is filled with the scent of him – a deep musk, not unpleasant, but personal, visceral and touched with the sweetness of linden boughs. They are in bloom now and their perfume fills the air and pervades this, his bedchamber. You move with him, scarcely aware of conscious thought but feeling with him the delight he is almost ashamed to enjoy. He has calmed a bit. You have only licked and teased, and it has stirred him into readiness, but you have done nothing more. He relaxes and sighs as your tongue flits in loving circles over the point of his hip and down to the top of his thigh… It is a delightful, tantalizing sensation but it gives him a moment’s peace. His hand finds your hair and he tries to stroke you, but he is still tingling with passion and his movements are clumsy. Realization that you are the reason for his impairment fills you with energy like a fiery draught. You want more. You want to drive him over the edge of lustful madness – to ignite his passion like it has never been before – to make him feel even a small part of the joy he has given you. You slip down a bit more and, suddenly freed from being imprisoned beneath you, he rises erect and eager. His body is trembling under your still encircling hands and you know, if you do not act quickly, his sense of decorum will win out, he will protest and the opportunity will be missed. It is indeed time to act.

You settle comfortably between his legs, your arms still cradling his hips. Your hands lie flat against his back in the sweet curve where his buttocks begin. The firm muscles flex and tighten delightfully under your palms. You rub your cheek against his soft, moist skin and he lets out a groaning sigh. His arms reach out to clutch the coverlet on both sides of the bed, his fine, slender fingers burying themselves in the white fabric.

With no further warning than your cheek’s caress, you begin, though slowly at first. You are unsure of your actions and are feeling your way. It is not as difficult as you thought, though it was easier with the finger. That was slender and lax with sleep… this is… well, anything but. You take more of him. He is awake and fully aware, and at your first tentative explorations he begins to shake. If it is from fear, or pleasure or a struggle to control himself, you cannot tell, but you are glad he is not thrusting into you as he was earlier. Until you work out the logistics, it is best he not make things more difficult, after all. Slowly, you work your way down until you can go no further. He still trembles, but you can feel no other response. You wonder if perhaps you have miscalculated, and that this does not please him as you thought it might, but the moment you move to pull back and at the first touch of your tongue cradling him, his darkly curled head slams back into the bed sheets and he groans loudly. It shakes you both. His fingers clench and his back curves into your hands. He is utterly yours and you thrill to feel how responsive he is. You would grin ear to ear with delight if you could. The sudden ludicrous realization of why you can’t grin is so hilarious you almost laugh in spite of your position and you quickly have to swallow around him to avoid drooling.

That motion DOES elicit a response. His head snaps up and he stares straight at you, his face frozen in a grimace of pleasure. You are alarmed but excited. Before this you have only seen this look while in the throes of deepest passion, and now you have spurred him to it with only a teasing caress. Experimentally, you suck a little, your tongue moving along him as if he were a honeycomb you were draining. It is too much for Frodo. At that innocent little flutter, his eyes roll back, he drops heavily to the bed and a guttural groaning cry escapes him. You have never heard him so completely aroused and it stirs your blood. He arches his back again and his hips rock forward. It is a surprise, but you hold on and follow his jerking movements. He is trying desperately to control himself, but his hips are making little involuntary thrusts that send your senses reeling again. You can no longer think. His motion seduces you and you move with him, your hungry body responding to his fervor. Everything is a blur of sensation. You feed his mounting passion, responding to him intuitively, giving him exactly the touch that will send him rocketing to culmination. He is wild and untamed and suddenly, out of the mists of your passion, you feel him reach blindly for you. His hands find your forearms and he grasps them painfully. His quivering hips arch up just as you slip down on him again.

“STOP!” His scream is ragged and harsh. You look up, shocked, but have no time to reply. He lifts you off bodily and flings you onto your back beside him. As quick as a hunting minx, he is on you, one hand deftly lifting your back, the other roughly pushing your leg aside. He is brusque and urgent and before you can even form a coherent thought he has plunged himself deep inside you. You gasp in shock and arch into him. You were ready, indeed, aching to feel him inside you, but the violence of his entry is so uncharacteristic you are overwhelmed. He plunges into you again and once more but that is as long as he can last. He explodes inside you with an aching cry and his firm, radiant body trembles with its shuddering release. He is sated and with a deep, sighing breath he falls and folds you into his arms.

It is over. He is still inside you, trembling a little and growing softer. You wrap your arms around his cooling back and hold him tight. This was his time and you revel in his delight, but part of you wishes you could have shared in it more. He has pleased you so many times; you should not begrudge him once that is his alone, but still… You sigh and run your fingers up his back to settle in the warm place beneath his dark chestnut curls.

“Come,” he whispers huskily in your ear. You look into his eyes, now a bright, crystalline blue and inches away from yours, to see the secret delight mirrored there. He looks happy, but preoccupied, almost distracted. “Let’s get cleaned up, shall we?” he says. As abruptly as he entered you, he lifts and is gone. You shiver, feeling suddenly vulnerable. He rolls off the other side of the bed and stands, holding out his hand.

You sit up, slowly, shame flushing your cheeks. He has always lain with you long after the throes of passion have subsided, but now he is up, and seemly eager to get away. Have you erred? Does Frodo now think less of you for what you have done? The warm bubble of your delight and the sweet memories of his dancing hips seem to deflate before your eyes. You feel used and discarded. Have you thrown away all potential for a life of joy simply because you could not resist a scandalous finger? You follow your lord’s outstretched hand, but as soon as you are standing beside him, you wrap your arms self-consciously over your breasts. He cocks an eyebrow at you, concerned.

“Are you alright, beloved?” he asks, real concern in his tone. He drops a sweet but rushed kiss on your lips and you can’t help noticing how soft and warm his own are. You could not bear it if he turned from you now.

“Are….are you happy, my lord? I mean,…” You look down miserably and shuffle your feet. “I don’t know what I mean, my love. Please pay me no mind.” You feel tears building in your eyes and quickly try to blink them away.

Frodo cants his head to look you in the eye – but the expression on his face is not one that you expected. He is grinning, but there is a wicked daring to that expression that you have rarely ever seen on him. He looks remarkably as you must have when you’d first proposed this little adventure. He chuckles and an embarrassed flush colors his cheeks again.

“Happy? Well, I should say…” he pauses looking flustered, but continues. “Yes,” he sighs. “I should say I am.” He smiles to himself and after a moment looks up through dark lashes.

The wicked grin again. He is studying you intently and you wonder at the reason. Finally, he takes your hand and leads you to the bath in the alcove by the fire. “Let’s get cleaned up, my sweet. I have plans for you.” He lifts you into the metal tub and scoops up a generous dipperful of water from the warming basin. You shiver as it cascades down your back.

“Plans?” you ask. You can’t help but notice that his lips are still ruddy and his cheeks are still apple flushed. Steam rises from your body but you do not heed it.

“Yes,” Frodo whispers softly. “You don’t think I would let you get away with that without reprisals, do you?” The wicked grin broadens. “It’s your turn next, my dear…”

:o ...

From here on, you are on your own, ladies... I HOPE you are adequately familiar with the Squire's 'talents' to be a fair judge of how good he'd be at THIS particular activity? >:)

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