Peachy
The Peachmeister
Registered: Jan 2003
Location: Horny, hellbound and happy in the Harem with Meryl Marie
Posts: 257 |
Poor Lily! (((Lily))). 
Looking forward to Narya's next post. May I offer a camping vignette?
It's too long to post in one hit, so I'll split it in two rather than double
post.
Part I
“Let’s make a bet,” Frodo says. He smiles at you over his armful of freshly
cut wood. If you didn’t have your own armful of firewood, you’d walk straight
over and find out what that smile tasted like.
“What kind of bet?”
A strange place to play that kind of game. Your campsite is beautiful, green
and tranquil and soaked in sunshine. Your sisters are enchanted with it,
planning endless festivities.
“I bet you won’t be able to go from midnight to midnight without kissing me more than ten times.”
You stare at him.
A bet? That’s torture.
“So you couldn’t do it.” Frodo drops his wood on the pile, his voice husky and amused. “That’s a shame.”
You drop your wood with a clatter.
“What are the terms of this bet?”
“If you win, you have to do exactly what I say for one day. If you win, vice versa.”
“Done,” you say. “From midnight tonight.”
Frodo laughs and shakes your hand. Then his thumb slides up your wrist,
tracing a slow, tingling path. He’s close enough for you to smell linden
and sun-warmed cotton.
“Till tomorrow, then,” he says, and grins wickedly as he walks away.
You make a point of sitting the furthest from him when the campfire
starts. Your sisters are laughing and singing, unashamedly loving the firelight’s
effect on Frodo. His lustrous curls are gold-tinted, his skin like warmed
honey.
Everyone is threading marshmallows on sticks or cramming them onto biscuits.
Toasting the sweets brown and crisp on the fire’s heat. Frodo takes one
and bites into it. He laughs at the sweet, molten stickiness and catches
some with his tongue.
The lass beside you taps your arm.
“Your marshmallow’s on fire.”
You rescue your marshmallow inferno just as some of the lasses burst into
song. When it ends, Frodo applauds loudly. “You shall all get thanks for
that,” he announces.
Bouncing up, makes his way around the circle, kissing each lass quickly on
the lips. He kisses the flushed and giggling lass next to you, then puts
his hands lightly on your knees and leans in.
For a moment you almost consider slapping him away. Ridiculous. Nonsensical.
As your lips cling warmly to his, Frodo whispers, “till midnight.”
Then he darts to the next lass, leaving you to gather your scattered wits.
Safe in your tent, you shake out your sleeping bag, put on your thickest
nightgown, and choose a book of poetry, turning to the most solemn lay you
can find. Fortunately it’s late, and after a few minutes you are tired enough
to douse the lamp. Fortitude, that’s what you have. Resistance. A mind
of your own. You don’t let your guard down that easily!
Perhaps it is a gift of the fresh air, but you have a marvellous dream.
Frodo’s face is there, inches from your own. His breath is caressing your
mouth.
“Good morning,” he purrs.
“Mmm,” you answer happily.
Such a lovely way to start a day – a long, slow, leisurely –
“Frrrdghh! That’s cheating!”
Frodo looks innocent. “Nonsense.”
You sigh huffily. “That’s one kiss, then. Only one. I still have nine left.”
“Would you like your hair brushed?” he says politely. “It’s very tangled.”
After a haughty pause, you nod. You do have resistance. In spades. And you will not let him rattle you.
The brush draws silkily through your hair. Then Frodo’s fingers tingle the
back of your neck, becoming touches and caresses. Tracing the shape of your
ears. Untangling your locks from crown to ends.
“Finished,” he murmurs, his hand still on your nape, eyes glowing into yours.
“Thank you,” you say, and stand hurriedly up.
You’re not cracking early. Just – pacing yourself.
“Do you need any help getting dressed?”
“No!”
Frodo grins deliciously before ducking out of the tent.
The lake is the colour of white gold, and some of the lasses are out
in boats. Frodo, however, has elected to stay on shore with his fishing
rod. There are so many lasses here today - why does it feel like you are
the only one near him?
The sun beats down, relentless. Perspiration is running down your back.
And your neck. And the backs of your knees. You take off your overskirt
and your bodice and sit in your thin, low-cut chemise and petticoat. You
can feel Frodo’s eyes on you. The sun is nothing compared to that.
The fishing line jerks taut. With his lashes down and a frown of concentration,
Frodo reels in the line. His shirt is half-unbuttoned from the heat, and
it gapes as he bends forward.
Suddenly you hurry to the shore and wade into the water, enjoying the cold
shock to your skin. The bottom is sandy and pebbled, the water rippling
crystal.
You take three deep breaths, and dive. Sound and light closes off, and you
are encased in a world of waving weed and darting fish, turning in perfect
unison. Up for a breath, a wet shake of the head, and down again.
And there he is. Lovely as a merman, his shirt sleeves billowing, and his
curls in a weightless cloud. When he sees you, the blue of his eyes brighter
than any living coral, he swims up to where your own hair streams upward.
Bubbles tickle your cheek as he brings his face up to your own.
You hold him until your lungs scream for air, and he holds you to him as
you rise in his arms to the surface. To break apart and gulp for oxygen
under the bright dazzle of sunlight.
“Two,” he says, over his shoulder, and he strokes in to the shore.
Until lunch you manage to steer clear of him. You’ve done well – it’s only eleven hours till midnight.
“Are you all right?” one of your sisters asks. “You’re looking awfully pale.”
She puts her hand to your forehead. “I can find something for sunstroke.”
Making excuses, you join in unpacking the delights from the food baskets.
You open the basket of freshly baked bread. Why must the elves be so thorough?
They haven’t only baked it, they’ve sliced and buttered it to boot.
A shadow appears on the table. A swear word jumps into your mind, one you certainly wouldn’t use in Frodo’s presence.
“Mmm,” Frodo says. “I’m hungry.”
Deftly, he lifts a slice of bread and sinks his teeth into it. “Like some?”
he says, innocently offering you the bitten slice.
There’s a crumb just at the corner of his mouth. “Um,” you say. “No. No thank you.”
Frodo leans forward two inches and says something to you in Quenya.
Oh, Eru.
It’s not just what he says – it’s the sound of the words. Words you only
share with him when involved in other activities. Never before have you
been able to resist them.
And you don’t now.
This will be the last one today for sure, and it’s a mere peck. Is anyone watching? Too bad if they are.
Frodo breaks the kiss. What is he doing? His cheeks are rosy flushed, his lips dark.
“Anyone would think,” he murmurs, “that you don’t really care about this bet at all.”
And away he walks, still carrying the slice of bread.
You slump against the trestle table.
Someone packed the mantelpiece clock from Bag End West. An Elvish joke.
One of the lasses has set it on a table. You keep glancing at it. It’s
driving you crazy.
To your relief, someone calls your name. One of your sisters rushes over.
“Frodo has a wonderful idea,” she exclaims. “I want to do a sculpture with
the clay from the shore. Would you be able to pose for me?”
“Of course,” you say, flattered.
She leads you to a rock by the lake. Frodo is sitting on it, eyes glinting at you, a hint of a smile on his mouth.
“Er,” you say.
She arranges you both on the rock. “Rest back on your elbows a bit,” she
says. “Is that comfortable? Frodo, tilt your head an inch more. Hold that
pose! Now, Frodo, could you move your hand up to her waist? Oh, that’s
lovely.”
She sets rapidly to work with her clay, humming to herself. “A hobbit version
of Rodin. Now, can you two kiss until I get the faces right?”
You glare at Frodo. He grins, trying too hard not to giggle.
Oh well.
Fourth kiss coming up.
__________________
Coveting in the LUST PALACE!!!! - Eldalieva.
The soul of The Two Towers is in Frodo's anguished face. - Russell Swensen, LA Weekly.
O! Gil-Galad was a poncy king
Of him the jesters madly sing
The last whose realm had vodka free
Between the mountains and the sea... - Jussacgirl, LOTR Big Brother.
Report this post to a moderator | IP: Logged
|
06-13-2003 02:30 PM
)are having our own virtual camping trip here on BEWTE 
) are going to have to write something?! 
Like what?! How?! *whimper*
