Extra Feet
F/S, N17, PreQuest.
Scrump
was one of the Bracegirdles’ dogs, but many a day found him at Bag End. Bilbo
and Frodo, no great dog lovers, had more or less fallen for his charms. He was
inoffensive as a dog could be, with short legs, thick cream and gold fur, and a
permanently happy expression.
He liked nothing better than watching Sam work in the garden, or having his
white chest-fur rubbed with a foot. Each hot day while Sam while Sam savouring a
cool ale in the kitchen, Scrump waddled into Bag End’s study, flopped under
the desk and snored. Bilbo, writing his book, and Frodo, busy with letters,
tickled him with their toes while they worked. Sam put an old, holey cushion
under the desk for Scrump’s comfort.
One afternoon Sam decided he’d better wash that cushion, and crawled under the
desk for it. There wasn’t much room for a hobbit, and it smelled musty and
dusty. Not to mention doggy. But it was dark and cool under the window, and Sam
could understand why Scrump liked it. Perhaps if he moved the desk back from the
wall, it would create a few extra feet of room for him. Sam’s joints clicked
as he squeezed back further under the desk, on top of the cushion.
And he found he was stuck.
His feet and back were jammed hard against the wood, and a crick in his back
held him fast. Sam told himself he was ninnyhammer and worse besides. Well, he'd
take off some clothes if he had to, if he could squeeze out the better. He
tugged at his pants and wriggled, and had them down to his knees when Frodo’s
feet appeared in the doorway and walked up to the desk.
The chair scraped into place, and the feet settled inches from Sam’s knee.
He heard the soft clunk as a cup was placed on the desk, and the rustle of
paper.
Sam tried not to breathe. He could imagine Mr. Frodo’s smile, his stifled
laughter at Sam’s predicament. But first he’d have to –
Frodo’s foot reached out absently and began rubbing Sam’s bare thigh.
Every nerve Sam possessed crackled like a firework.
He should speak. He should - say something. But if he did, he’d probably
embarrass Frodo more than himself. Sam sat tight and desperately hoped Mr. Frodo
would go out for more ink.
Frodo continued rubbing, working with his toes and rolling his instep.
Sam stifled a moan. Mr. Frodo couldn’t, couldn’t know what he was doing. He
must think Sam was a cushion. But how could anyone mistake THAT for a..
The sole of the foot rubbed lightly up and down. Mr. Frodo was humming a tune of
some kind, away with the Elves so to speak.
Sam’s head lolled. Where the foot was rubbing now was silky scarlet, very hot
and extremely hard.
Sam pushed his palms against the roof of the desk, his breath coming in eager
pants.
The tune faltered. The foot stopped. Sam squeezed his eyes shut.
A hand appeared under the desk, hesitant.
Sam didn’t know why he did it. He was hardly in a state to consider. But he
leaned forward and licked the fingers.
Slowly they played against his lips, grazed by his teeth. Growing bold, he took
one and suckled it deep.
Now the foot began rubbing again, now slicked with a wet smear. Harder. Faster.
Fireworks danced in front of Sam’s eyes, a floorboard squeaked, and he kept
working on the finger in his mouth. He could only see shadows between Frodo’s
legs but he could smell juniper and sweat, and hear quick breathing. Sam wished
distantly he could move forward and touch that place, but he was too close to
– too close to –
The foot stroked in a bold caress, from the very base of him to the swollen tip.
Despite the cramp situation, Sam reared and spurted and nearly shouted. The
crick in his back melted away, and he heard a warm sigh above him; what might
have been a quill falling from fingers.
“Frodo,” called Mr. Bilbo from the kitchen. “I’m taking Scrump out for a
walk. He’s giving me one of those funny looks.”
“All right,” Frodo called back.
Footsteps, the shutting of a door. The crunch of gravel.
Sam wiped awkwardly at himself, and the side of the desk, with his shirt. The
foot had retreated. Frodo’s chair pushed back.
Sam buttoned himself up.
Frodo’s legs parted.
Trembling fingers unbuttoned and unlaced. They shifted up his length, coaxing it
high and full. Sam moved cautiously, feeling the ache of cramped muscles. There
it was, erect and bare, rosy flame.
Sam couldn’t look up, nearly banging his head as he struggled out from the
safe darkness under the desk. He dropped the cushion for his knees and brushed
his lips along the length as Frodo’s foot had teased him.
Frodo tensed, his legs curled tight around the chair legs, then Sam's mouth took
him completely and Frodo's ankles shifted around the back of his thighs. Sam
smelled the clean cotton of Frodo’s shirt, and reached to slide his hands
underneath it, just to feel the soft skin as he'd always wanted. He moved
position to improve his angle, and worked with firm palms and an increasingly
keen tongue. He hadn’t had no teaching in this, but he knew what his own flesh
liked, and from the thrusts and gasps of his master, he wasn’t too bad at it.
When Frodo cried out, in hoarse, guttural ecstasy, Sam held him down fast lest
the chair topple backwards.
Shaking hands stroked Sam’s hair, and lips pressed warm on his head. They sat
like that for a long time.
Later that afternoon, Scrump found a choice cut of steak by the plum tree. He
wolfed it down happily, then squirmed through the doorway to climb onto a
parlour chair and fell asleep on Bilbo's best weskit.