After several hours of walking southward over rolling, green hills and through thin groups of trees too sparse to be forests, Aragorn stopped them at the crest of a hill. “The sun has reached its zenith,” he pointed up to the baking sun above them. “And we have walked many hours now. We deserve a small rest, and a nice meal.”
Merry and Pippin cheered and collapsed onto the soft grass in relief. Bill the pony cantered down the hill to graze on the tall grass by the trees. The others chatted and sang cheerily as they built a fire and prepared some of their salted meat and bread for roasting. Once the fire was kindled, Gandalf and Aragorn walked to the south edge of the hill, looking at the far-off, formidable peak of Caradhras that jutted above the austere Misty Mountains, which bordered the east as far as they could see, until they dissolved in the red horizon. Gandalf looked troubled and Aragorn merely watchful, scanning the skies for signs of the unfriendly spies of Saruman.
“Our water skins are getting light,” Boromir commented, weighing his own in his hand. “Perhaps one of us should try to locate the stream, and carry some water back. I saw it wind away through the trees over there,” he gestured toward the small thicket of trees off to the west, which swayed gently in the breeze.
“I will go, Boromir,” said Legolas, stepping lightly over to stand beside him. “My eyes are sharp, and I can see the glimmer of the Elbenoriel hiding snugly among the pine trees, breathing in their winter scent as it trickles past…”
“If we let an elf go, then we will wait hours for him to finish composing songs about the ripples made by the wind on the water,” Gimli said disdainfully. “My eyes may not be so keen, but I have a dwarf’s nose, and I can smell where the air is fresh, and where the water is the sweetest.”
“Well, come with me, then, Master Dwarf,” Legolas leapt a bit of the way down the hill, smiling cheekily, “and together we will find the sweetest and brightest water to be had.”
With a grudging smile, Gimli trudged after him and the two mismatched companions disappeared in the trees.
Pipe smoke drifted up along with the smoke from the fire, and Sam felt a painful longing for the Shire as he caught the musky scent of Pippin’s weed. Pippin and Merry were lying on their backs, looking up at the jagged mountaintops high above them, and blowing smoke rings.
Gandalf looked over disapprovingly as he nudged the fire higher with a log.
“Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took,” he stood over them, his thick brows furrowed. “Much as I hate to interrupt your merry-making, I find it necessary to remind you that we are out in the open, vulnerable to the gaze of Isengard, and it may do you well to keep your wits about you.”
“It’s just a bit of weed, Gandalf!” wheedled Merry. “We won’t lose our wits, we promise!”
“Promise, my foot. I’d as soon eat my staff as trust the promise of a tired hobbit already half-high on Shire-weed.” Gandalf barely kept himself from smiling. “Nevertheless, if you want to eat within the next hour or so, I suggest that you put your pipes aside and come help at the fire.”
Propping himself up on his elbow, Pippin interjected, “But Gandalf, if you can’t even trust a tired hobbit half-high on Shire-weed to keep his wits about him, how on Middle-Earth could you expect him to cook without setting the grass ablaze?”
He and Merry rolled around on the grass, laughing and shoving each other playfully. “Fool of a Took,” Gandalf muttered as he rejoined Boromir and Aragorn at the fire.
Grinning, Sam walked to the north side of the hill, where Frodo sat, looking pensively in the direction of Rivendell. Hearing him approach, Frodo turned and smiled up at him. “Sam,” he said simply, by way of greeting, and patted the grass beside him. Sam flopped down and looked northward with Frodo.
“It is so difficult to get used to the fact that we’ve left the one place where we could have been safe and happy for a long time, only to walk further into danger,” said Frodo thoughtfully.
“Well, Mr. Frodo,” said Sam. “I think you’re right as it’s an odd feeling, and a mighty unpleasant one too, when you think of these spies and these Nazgul what keep following us around everywhere – but as I understood it, it seemed like we wouldn’t be safe forever no matter where we stayed. Best to get the job done with, I think, before even fair places like Rivendell get overrun with darkness.”
Frodo sighed. “Of course you’re right again, Sam. I just wish I weren’t the one who had to do the job.”
“So do all who live to see such times,” Gandalf had wandered over, leaving Boromir to turn the meat on the make-shift spit. “But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that –“
“Not yet, Gandalf!” Boromir called.
“Oh yes, quite right, Boromir,” Gandalf shook his head distractedly, straightening his tall, weather-beaten hat. He walked slowly back over to the fire. “I was saving my inspiring monologue for a later day.”
Sam didn’t like to see his master looking so down-trodden. He gave him a gentle push on the shoulder. “Hey, now, Mr. Frodo,” he said bracingly. “It’s not so bad as you’re making it out – look here,” he pointed back over his shoulder at the fire, “every evening a barbecue, just like summertime back in the old Shire, and every night we get to sleep beneath the stars.” Sam grinned at Frodo, and Frodo smiled weakly back.
“And what’s more,” Sam pressed on, “we’re going places we never would’ve gone otherwise, and making friends with all kinds of folk – folk who, even though they never knew us before, are willing to walk right into the Shadow with us. Do you think Lobelia and Lotho Sackville-Baggins, or any other hobbit for that matter, would come tramping about with us, braving trolls and orcs and the like?”
Frodo snorted. He had no doubt that Lobelia and Lotho, his greedy relatives, were keeping watch on his house and waiting for the legal period to pass after which time they could loot all of his belongings.
“See?” said Sam, encouraged by Frodo’s laughter. “And what’s more,” Sam’s eyes roved over Frodo, hoping to boost his confidence with a personal compliment. “All this tramping about, speaking of it, has done you some good – I reckon you’ll have no trouble finding yourself a lovely wife when we return –“
“And will you finally speak to Rosie of your feelings?” Frodo asked exasperatedly. Sam blushed.
“Maybe I shall,” he muttered, “But you’re changing the subject!” he said. “I mean, after all this walking, you’ve gotten all strong and muscled, just like Mr. Strider.”
Frodo chuckled again. “You’re jesting, Sam. I don’t look anything like Aragorn.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure!” Sam declared. He hesitated, then shyly reached out a hand. “Why, look at the muscles on your legs…” Frodo was taken by surprise when Sam gave his thigh a little squeeze. He jumped with a squawk, and rolled away from Sam.
“What’s the matter, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked, concerned. “Are your muscles aching?”
Frodo sat up a few feet away from Sam and continued scooting away as Sam made to crawl closer again. He found himself curiously unable to suppress nervous giggles, which bubbled up as Sam moved closer to him, reaching out to touch him again.
“No, Sam, I’m not hurting – it’s just, well,” Frodo drew his knees up protectively and wrapped his arms around them, trying to beat down the urge to giggle and run away. “It’s just that I’m frightfully ticklish.” He tried to keep from smiling involuntarily and to look at Sam with serious eyes, hoping that Sam would leave the subject there.
But Sam had other ideas. He thought a bit of laughter would be just the thing to loosen his master up. Besides, he felt a warm, excited pleasantness where his penis had suddenly grown hard, rubbing against the fabric of the pants his Gaffer had sewn him back home.
“Ticklish, Mr. Frodo?” he asked with a grin, reaching for Frodo’s bare ankle, which Frodo jerked out of his reach. “I didn’t know that about you!”
“Don’t, Sam!” said Frodo, now giggling in earnest, pushing himself backward away from Sam, but clearly unwilling to turn his back on him.
Sam ignored him and with a lunge, managed to grab both of Frodo’s ankles at once. With little effort (Sam was bigger and stronger than Frodo after all, which Frodo was quickly realizing to his dismay), Sam pulled Frodo toward him and then sat on his calves. Frodo struggled helplessly, but his anticipatory giggles were already sapping him of energy.
“What would happen,” Sam began teasingly, “If I were just to reach a hand back and tickle the soles of your poor, trapped feet?”
Sam felt Frodo’s feet clench and jerk beneath him, but Frodo was unable to extricate himself. “Please – no!” he begged, but Sam’s right hand was already drifting behind him, out of Frodo’s sight. Frodo braced himself, but it wasn’t enough to protect him against the shock of Sam’s fingers lightly tickling the soft, exposed sole of his right foot.
“ahahahaha – Sam – hahahah – stahahahap!” Frodo giggled. When he couldn’t move his foot, he resorted to twisting the rest of his body, trying to get out from under Sam, but it was impossible. He fell back and shrieked when Sam suddenly switched to his other foot, which felt even more ticklish than his right foot.
Sam was gazing at Frodo’s twitching foot, grinning as he listened to his high-pitched giggles. Frodo’s struggling legs rubbed against his throbbing penis, augmenting the warm thrills of pleasure that coursed through him as he continued to listen to Frodo laugh.
All of a sudden, Sam felt a hand tickle his right side under his ribs, tight from turning around to look at Frodo’s feet. Surprised, he fell over, clutching his side and laughing. Frodo had gained enough control of himself to lean over and tickle him, and then he made his escape, leaping to his feet and running down the hill toward the trees.
Sam jumped up and beckoned to Merry and Pippin. “Come on, lads! Let’s give Mr. Frodo a good laugh!” They didn’t need any convincing - having watched the scene between Frodo and Sam with great amusement, they were both eager to partake in the fun. As they watched the hobbits go, Aragorn and Boromir chuckled and Gandalf rolled his eyes, sprinkling some salt over the roasting meat.
“Gloomy as he’s been,” Merry piped up as they plodded down the hill together toward the place where Frodo had disappeared. “he could use a good tickle.”
“Fair point,” said Pippin, gesturing for them to be quiet as they tiptoed toward the outer trees. “Haven’t heard the poor hobbit laugh since we left Rivendell.”
Merry paused and leaned against the tree. “You know, now I think on it, Frodo never was the playful sort – never got into the wrestling and tickling fights that we all had as lads.”
“Probably because he’s so ticklish,” Sam couldn’t keep the delight out of his voice. “He might have been afraid that everyone’d gang up on him and tickle him silly…”
“You mean like what we’re about to do?” Pippin asked sarcastically.
“Yes,” Sam said, unabashed. “It’s like Merry said – he could use a good laugh.”
“Well, how are we going to find him? He could be hiding anywhere.”
They all peered through the sparse boughs, but all was still and quiet except for the far-off singing of the river. Sam thought he could even hear Gimli’s gruff voice singing a dwarf song in the distance.
“Do you think he’s got the ring on?” Pippin asked.
“No,” Sam shook his head. “He wouldn’t do that unless he felt really cornered. Plus he knows Strider will get cross with him if he does – since the Nazgul can find him easier when he does that.”
“I know what to do!” said Merry suddenly. “Sometimes really ticklish people will start laughing even if you just suggest tickling to them, so we might be able to get him to laugh and reveal his location.”
Remembering how Frodo had giggled and backed away when he wasn’t even touching him, Sam grinned and nodded. He took a step forward into the trees and started to taunt Frodo in a sing-song voice:
“Mr. Froooo-doooo,” he called. “We know you’re in here somewhere, and when we find you, Merry and Pippin are going to hold you down so you can’t move a muscle, and then…I’m going to tickle you all over your poor, helpless body…from your soft, ticklish feet all the way up your ribs to your armpits and ears – and you’ll just have to lay there and giggle and laugh until we’re all finished with you.”
About ten feet away, Frodo crouched behind a relatively thick tree with his hands clamped over his mouth. His face was red from the effort of keeping silent, but giggles bubbled forth unwillingly from his belly, threatening to betray him. He wanted to climb his tree to get into a more secure position, but none of the surrounding trees had low hanging branches, and the others were sure to see him if he started to scramble up the trunk.
“Mr. Frooo-dooo,” Sam’s voice was closer now and Frodo let out a small squeak of surprise before freezing in horror. Had Sam heard? Whether or not he had, he continued taunting Frodo. “I know you’re close by Mr. Frodo,” he cooed. “There’s only so far you could have gone, and the longer you hide, the longer we’ll tickle you…” Frodo heard the scuff of dirt just on the other side of his tree and he bolted away without thinking.
“There he is!” Pippin pointed at him, and soon the others were in hot pursuit. Sam had still been about 5 feet away, so Frodo was not sure what had made the scuffing sound so close to his tree, but he certainly wasn’t pausing to find out. He darted between the tree trunks and felt a mounting panic as he heard Sam’s thunderous footsteps catch up with him.
He could see a clearing ahead, through another patch of trees. He steered for it, hoping there might be some brush to hide behind, or at least an opportunity to fake the other hobbits out and then dart back into the trees, but just as he neared the line of trees, he tripped over a protruding root and toppled over. Before he could even get onto his knees to crawl, Sam was on him, his legs athwart his waist. Desperately, Frodo reached up and caught Sam’s hands, anything to keep him from tickling him.
Merry and Pippin caught up moments later. “All right, lads, get his hands,” said Sam.
“No!” cried Frodo, but Merry and Pippin had already each seized a wrist and pinned it down on either side of Frodo’s head. Sam then unbuttoned Frodo’s tunic, exposing his bare tummy and the ring on the chain he wore around his neck. Turning around, Sam pulled down Frodo’s trousers and set them on the forest floor. Then he feasted his eyes on Frodo’s trembling body.
“Hmm, where shall I tickle?” he asked gently. Frodo giggled a little at the sound of the word. But he had stopped protesting for the time being – he knew that he had to reserve his breath. Sam continued, “I see two vulnerable, tender little underarms. Might they be ticklish?”
“No!” Frodo gasped as Sam’s index fingers inched their way down toward his armpits, batting the air threateningly as they went. He struggled with all of his might, but Pippin and Merry weren’t budging.
“If you do this,” Frodo burst out desperately as Sam’s fingers shifted the fabric of his tunic away from his armpits, “I won’t speak to any of you lads for –heeeheeheehahahaSTOP!! HahahahahaPLEASE!”
Sam was barely touching him, just lightly brushing his fingertips back and forth inside the hollow of his underarms, but it was enough to send that awful lightness jittering through his nerves, making his body feel vulnerable and out of control, and the fact that he couldn’t move or get away from the devastating touch made it so much worse, all he could do was thrash his head from side to side and giggle helplessly.
Sam was enjoying himself, watching his master laugh as he had never laughed before, watching his face turn red and tears of mirth pool at the corners of his eyes. Every now and then he gave Frodo a little break, marching his index and middle fingers up toward Frodo’s elbows and stroking there for a moment, keeping Frodo on the verge of anticipatory giggles, before sliding his fingers back toward his ticklish armpits again – all the while, Frodo gasping between giggles, “No hehehe Sam, don’t hahahaha, not there again, nononoHAHAHAHASTOP!”
So it continued for several minutes, until Sam decided he should move to a different part of Frodo’s body.
“So Mr. Frodo, where are you most ticklish?” Sam asked him teasingly, drawing a single fingertip from Frodo’s elbow, down past his armpit, and along the jutting ribs of his left side. Frodo shivered and giggled softly.
“I won’t tell you,” Frodo said, as defiantly as possible between giggles. “You’re going to do it either way, so it doesn’t matter if I tell you or not.”
“Well, in that case, I guess you leave me no choice but to start with a nice massage of your knees and thighs and then…work my way up, hmmm?” Sam scooted down a few inches so that he was again sitting on Frodo’s calves. When Frodo didn’t answer and instead closed his eyes, seemingly to brace himself, Sam reached behind him and gave Frodo’s left foot a quick tickle. Frodo gave a yelp of surprise, his eyes springing open again, and then laughed, trying to clench his foot away from Sam’s fingers. But Sam had already stopped tickling there and had now posed his thumb and forefinger of each hand on either side of Frodo’s knees.
An unwilling grin lit up Frodo’s face as Sam slid his fingers alternately up and down, not tickling yet but threatening to do so at any moment.
“Come on, Sam,” Frodo pleaded, the seriousness of his voice undermined by the snorts and chuckles that interrupted it as Sam teased him. “Just – let me go, and we can head back to the camp – we – we ought to – HEY, stop that! HeheheHAHAHAhehehe!” He lost his train of thought as Sam’s fingers did a quick series of squeezes up his left leg, all the way to the hip and then back down to the knee, each squeeze like a surge of ticklish electricity in his immobilized leg. “Let me finish!” he gasped as Sam resumed his light teasing near the knees. “I was saying, we ought to be helping Gandalf, Aragorn, and Boromir with the cooking. We should be pulling our weight, too.”
“Well Frodo, I don’t think the others’ll mind so much,” Merry supplied. “Part of pulling our weight is keeping up morale, and Sam and Pippin and I have noticed that lately you’ve been mighty gloomy -”
“-Mighty gloomy, indeed,” Pippin echoed solemnly.
“-and so we thought a good tickle would loosen you up, is all,” Merry finished.
Frodo closed his eyes for a moment at the injustice of it. “How am I supposed to be anything other than gloomy,” he asked quietly, “When we are miles away from home, in terrible danger, and heading toward Mordor, where we’re more likely than not to be captured, tortured, and killed?”
“Well, see, you’re focusing too much on the negative, Frodo,” Pippin responded, still in a light, clinical voice, as though he were a doctor explaining the importance of medicine to a resistant two-year-old patient. “Perhaps once we’ve finished with your – ah – laughter therapy, then you’ll be more willing to look at this journey as an adventure with friends.”
“Friends wouldn’t pin me down and inflict this – this – indignity on me,” Frodo burst out angrily.
Sam cocked his head to the side and widened his brown eyes sympathetically. “It’s for your own good, Mr. Frodo.” Then, without warning, he squeezed both of Frodo’s knees, shifting his fingers up and down over Frodo’s thighs, squeezing rapidly all the while.
Frodo screamed, it tickled so much. Merry and Pippin had to readjust their grip on his wrists because he bucked so strongly. It was agony, absolute agony – Sam’s fingers dug into the most ticklish crevices along his thighs, squeezing them over and over and moving on before Frodo could become desensitized - it was unbearable – but he couldn’t get away. He could only lay there and laugh endlessly, hoping that he wouldn’t run out of breath. Until –
“NO SAM NOT THERE!” Sam paused curiously with his fingers poised above the tender white skin of Frodo’s inner thighs. Frodo was struggling harder than ever now, his eyes frenzied, twisting his legs inward to try to protect that soft, soft skin. Sam sat back cross-legged, holding each of Frodo’s legs in the fold beneath his bent knees, so that Frodo’s legs were still immobilized, but now wrenched apart from each other.
Sam smiled and placed his index and middle fingers on the inside of Frodo’s knees. Gently, he began walking his fingers up toward Frodo’s tender inner thighs, Frodo breathing hard all the while, lifting his head to try to see what Sam was doing. As soon as Sam’s fingers reached his inner thighs, he began to dissolve into helpless giggles, his head falling back and his eyes shut tight. His nervous laughter became louder as Sam added more fingers, spidering lightly over the skin.
Then Sam lodged his fingers at the very top of Frodo’s inner thighs, squeezing the skin rapidly between them. Frodo shrieked and then shook momentarily with silent laughter before his voice and breath came back, an octave higher than before. He thrust his hips upward to each side, trying to escape, but eventually fell back, fatigued, laughing and begging for mercy.
Sam pulled back his hands and watched Frodo’s face. It was bright red and sweaty now, the roots of his hair damp where the sweat had trickled down. Tears streamed from the corners of his eyes.
“So was that your most ticklish spot then?” Pippin asked Frodo, peering at him upside down. “Your thighs? Because you were laughing pretty hard.”
“Go to hell!” Frodo barked, then immediately succumbed to giggles again when Merry reached over to tickle his left thigh. All of a sudden, his left hand was free – Merry had lost his grip on it when he’d reached over to tickle him, and Frodo thrust it down to block his thigh, his fingers scrabbling against Merry’s. Merry fell back, laughing, and Frodo rested his still-free hand on his stomach. He was exhausted but exhilarated at the same time. It felt like his whole body was tingling, and not in an entirely bad way.
“OK Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, “One more spot and then we’ll let you up.” Sam’s brown eyes bestowed a meaningful look on Frodo’s stomach.
Frodo felt a light, anticipatory swooping beneath the hand that rested on his stomach, as though a small fish had leapt just under the surface of his tummy – and again, Frodo giggled nervously. He fanned out his fingers as far as they would go and dug them into the flesh of his own stomach, as though he could anchor his hand there and protect himself.
Sam watched Frodo’s futile attempts to protect himself with relish. “Do you have a ticklish tummy, Mr. Frodo?” he asked teasingly.
Frodo shook his head wordlessly, knowing that it would be no good.
“I think you do,” said Sam in a maddeningly sing-song voice. He poked the parts of Frodo’s stomach and sides that he couldn’t cover with his hand, and Frodo accordingly shifted his hand around, trying to block the skin as he giggled again. “I think your tummy might be even more ticklish than your thighs…And do you know what I’m going to do, Mr. Frodo?”
Sam scooted forward again and then leaned across Frodo’s trembling, naked body until his lips rested against his ear. “I’m going to very gently…kiss…and tickle…and nibble your delicious tummy with my lips, and listen to that sweet, giggly laugh of yours.
The flutter of Sam’s lips tickled, but Frodo felt a surge of panic as Sam pulled away again, his words echoing in his mind.
“Get his hand again, Merry,” Sam said, and for the first time that evening, Frodo thought of using the ring. He felt the cool metal circle against his bare chest. But then he remembered that the ring only made him invisible – he would still be pinned to the ground, unable to escape his ticklish predicament.
Frodo’s hand must have twitched upward, because Sam suddenly chuckled as Merry dragged Frodo’s struggling wrist away from his stomach. “That’s good thinking, Mr. Frodo, not using the ring,” Sam said as he stretched out his own legs and slowly lowered his head closer to the ground so that his face was level with Frodo’s stomach. Now he could see little splotches of freckles near Frodo’s bony hips and a coffee-colored birthmark above and to the right of Frodo’s bellybutton that reminded him of a spot on a cow. “If you had,” Sam continued, “We’d’ve just had to give you more tickles for punishment.”
As Sam spoke, Frodo could feel his breath against his stomach, this private, tender part of him that was almost always guarded by clothes and by his arms, which he habitually clasped in front of his stomach when he was resting. Now, both of his arms were pinned uselessly above his head and his bare tummy felt frighteningly exposed and vulnerable.
Then he felt the profile of Sam’s lips and rather flat nose, barely caressing the surface of his tummy above his belly button, gently kissing an outline around his birthmark.
Giggles bubbled forth from his lips. Sam’s kisses were like the flutter of butterfly wings across his skin, constantly shifting from his ribs to his navel, then down to one hip and across the center to the other hip. It tickled more than the squeezes to his thighs, but because it was gentler, he didn’t laugh as loudly. Occasionally, when Sam found a spot that got a bigger reaction, he would nuzzle his face gently into that spot, like the small hollow just beneath Frodo’s jutting ribs – and Frodo’s giggles would quicken and grow higher-pitched. He could feel goosebumps blossoming across his skin, and unlike earlier, he was conscious of the others talking, of Merry saying, “Oooh, look at those goosebumps come up.”
“Yeah, you know, if I didn’t know better,” Pippin added on his right. “I’d think he was actually enjoying this – Oh, wait, now what’s this?”
With a wave of mortification, Frodo realized that his penis, previously shriveled up, was now elongating, standing almost straight up. Almost as though one thing led to another, Frodo heard himself unconsciously uttering a moan along with an extra spurt of giggles as Sam gripped Frodo on either side of his hips and blew a slow, soft raspberry just above his bellybutton. Much as he had hated and feared tickling all his life, Frodo acknowledged that there was something undeniably pleasurable about this light, fluttery tickling that kept his giggling tumbling out in a constant stream – indeed, something pleasurable about the intimate touch of lips against his skin, lips that smiled in response to his laughter as they roved about.
“What in the name of Thror under the mountain are you hobbits doing?” The gruff voice of Gimli spoke behind Frodo’s head. Frodo reasoned that he and Legolas must have been returning from their trip to fetch water. Perhaps the river was just through the line of trees ahead.
To Frodo’s relief (but also, somewhat, to his disappointment), Sam withdrew his face from his stomach and sat up. Frodo breathed deeply and quietly enjoyed the tingling of his skin where he had been tickled, as well as a lingering tingle along his penis, which still stood erect. Before Sam could respond to Gimli, Pippin said simply, “Tickling Frodo.”
Gimli nodded as he took in the whole scene. “Seems awfully unfair of so many to gang up on just one, though,” he commented nonchalantly. “Dishonorable. Or at least it would be considered that way among dwarves.”
Pippin looked a little abashed, but Merry spoke up. “It was just a bit of a prank, Gimli. It’s not as if we were really bullying him.”
Frodo snorted indignantly, but immediately let loose another stream of unwilling giggles as Merry tickled the underarm of the arm he was pinning. “Hush, you,” Merry told him playfully. “You know as well as we do that you’ve enjoyed at least the last few minutes of it. Come see, Gimli!”
Seemingly in spite of himself, Gimli stepped closer and said, “Oh my, that *does* look like someone’s enjoying themselves.”
“He likes to have his tummy tickled,” Sam informed Gimli, smiling down kindly at Frodo as the latter giggled and squirmed in anticipation of more tickles.
“Is that right, Frodo?” Gimli leaned forward so that the very tip of his long, trailing beard slid across the tight skin of Frodo’s stomach. Frodo immediately began to quake anew with laughter.
“Gimli hahaha stop it, c’mon hehehe, let me up now, guys – HAHA!” Frodo screeched as Sam landed another raspberry on his bottom-left rib. Soon, Sam’s lips were dappling his stomach with tender nibbles, Gimli’s scraggly beard drifted along his legs and dipped to tickle his toes and soles, and Merry and Pippin mercilessly tickled his underarms with lightly poking and spidering fingers – within thirty seconds, Frodo was reduced to tears and giddy laughter again, but all of the light, ticklish swooping, now besieging his entire body, seemed to be channeled pleasurably toward his warm, throbbing penis. He noticed his back was arching, and he was not sure whether he was going to pee or cum, but whatever it was, he wouldn’t be able to hold it back much longer –
With a great shivering and sense of release, Frodo came. Gimli immediately cursed and hurried back to the river to wash the cum out of his beard, Merry and Pippin laughing at him as he ran. The hobbits finally released Frodo, but he was so exhausted and overwhelmed by the lingering pleasure that all he could do for several moments was lie back on the grass, which felt as comfortable as his soft, down bed back in the Shire.
“Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked softly after a few minutes. His voice sounded nervous and uncertain, as though he were worried that Frodo would be angry with him. Frodo opened his eyes a fraction and saw that Merry and Pippin had left – he heard their voices mingling in the distance with those of Gimli and Legolas as the four of them walked back to camp.
Frodo blinked up at Sam’s anxious face. “Yes, Sam?” he asked.
“I was thinking we ought to get you washed up in the river,” Sam said, “And then I could carry you back up the hill, if you’d like – I can see you’re mighty tired.” Sam managed a weak smile, before saying, “Mr. Frodo?” again.
“Yes, Sam.”
“You’re not…not…” Sam hesitated. “Well, I hope you’re not too sore with me, Mr. Frodo, I didn’t mean to hurt you or embarrass you any, I just – it just was so nice to hear you laugh, and –“
“Sam,” Frodo reached up a hand and pressed it to Sam’s lips. “You don’t need to be sorry. I was afraid of being touched that way before, but now…I mean, that was one of the most exhilarating…most erotic experiences I have ever had.”
All the muscles in Sam’s face and shoulders seemed to melt in relief. “Do you really mean it, Mr. Frodo?” he asked. “You’re not mad?”
Frodo patted his shoulder. “Of course I mean it. I could never stay angry at my Sam.” Sam beamed. “What felt the best,” Frodo continued, gripping Sam around the neck as he effortlessly slid his arms beneath Frodo’s knees and shoulders and scooped him off the ground. “Was your kissing. I had that same out-of-control feeling, but I could feel your lips smiling against my skin, so it was altogether more tender and affectionate, and all of a sudden my laughter felt more…like music – light and free of fear. At that point, it felt nice to laugh.” As they walked, Frodo found himself almost drifting off to sleep again. He took very slow, deep breaths as Sam carried him – Sam smelled just like his cozy rooms at Bag End, and Frodo felt a pervasive feeling of security associated with his old life. Sam edged carefully out to the clearing with the river and then down the bank to the shallow water.
“Your laughter is very musical, if you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said shyly as he set Frodo down on his feet. The two of them bathed together silently, but not self-consciously. Frodo lay back on the smooth stones and let the singing river wash over him.
Once they had finished bathing, Sam helped Frodo, whose thumbs were fumbling from exhaustion, to button his tunic. He hoisted him back into his arms and carried him through the forest and up the hill. This time, Frodo did fall asleep, not waking again until the aroma of freshly roasted meat invaded his nostrils and caused his stomach to growl. The hobbits, Legolas, Gimli, Boromir, Aragorn, and Gandalf all had a merry dinner around the fire with much singing, some dancing, mostly on the part of Merry and Pippin, and some optimistic speculation about how far they had already come.
"I'd wager not two more days 'til we reach the foot of Caradhras!" Gimli growled happily as he gnawed on a residual bone and squinted his eyes to the black peak of the mountain, framed against the dusky sky.
“I wouldn’t wager too quickly if I were you, Gimli,” Gandalf commented soberly, looking seriously at him over his pipe as he blew smoke rings toward the rising moon in the east. “The mountain may look close from the top of this hill, but we still have several leagues of hard walking over uneven ground, some confusing, twisting paths through the rocky foothills, and then Saruman-“
The hobbits immediately became more subdued at the mention of Saruman, but Gimli interrupted Gandalf. “Bah!” he waved his hand dismissively and flecks of meat flew from his teeth. “Gandalf Stormcrow, you’re ruining our revelry. There’s no need to make the lads worry before they have reason to –“
“There’s also no reason to inflate their hearts with false optimism, only to have them break on the rocks of disappointment,” Gandalf inclined his head and raised his eyebrows sagely. “Minimizing the sense of danger of the road ahead will do nothing to make it easier to travel.”
Aragorn and Legolas nodded solemnly. Boromir’s eyebrows were knit together, and his mouth was half-open as though he would speak. Everyone knew what he wanted to say. Sure enough, after a few moments of silence –
“The road need not be so dangerous, Gandalf,” Boromir said. “I have already stated my views on the futility of marching straight toward the gates of Mordor…and my preference for turning our Fellowship toward the South, toward Gondor - the one great hope Middle Earth has left for a free world. And I’ve mentioned the possibility of arming them“ - his voice rose and his eyes glinted with a manic gleam – “with the one weapon that is sure to defeat the enemy –“
Frodo shivered and buried his face in Sam’s shoulder as Boromir’s eyes raked the front of his tunic, behind which the ring lay hidden. Sam put a protective arm around Frodo and glared at Boromir. But before he could say something belligerent, Aragorn spoke in a voice of forced calm.
“That was not the mission outlined at the Council of Elrond,” Aragorn fixed Boromir with his cool, blue stare. “The ring must go to Mordor, and we volunteered to assist the ring-bearer to the full extent of our individual abilities. Your path may very well lead South, Boromir,” Aragorn nodded in a conciliatory manner. “But the ring’s path does not – and I know that many among us would walk to the very edge of the cracks of doom in order to help Frodo. I count myself in that group.”
As he was sitting on Frodo’s other side, he was able to easily reach over and squeeze his shoulder. Frodo looked over from Sam’s shoulder and smiled, and Sam nodded approvingly at Aragorn.
Boromir nodded quickly and subsided into a cloudy silence. Gradually, Merry and Pippin grew louder and merrier in proportion to the alcohol and Shire weed that they consumed. The festive mood returned to the fire, but Sam and Frodo, who were both exhausted, bid goodnight to everyone and retired to their north-facing side of the hill before everyone else.
They fluffed out their blankets and lowered them, fluttering, to the ground. Frodo lay down in his blankets and immediately curled himself around them so he was in a cozy sort of nest. He patted the soft grass of the hill as Sam settled down in an upright, sitting position.
“This would be a good hill for hobbit homes,” Frodo remarked nonchalantly.
“You think so, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked musingly. “Certainly a lot of room here – probably could fit four or five good sized holes if you put them all around the hill. But I don’t think any hobbits – at least any hobbits from the Shire – would ever move out here where things are so wild.”
Frodo laughed, imagining his conservative friends and relatives and what they would think of living in a hobbit hole so far from the Shire, in the menacing shadow of these gigantic mountains.
“So it’ll just be me, you, Merry and Pippin, and Bilbo,” said Frodo. “We could each have our own hobbit hole around the hill.”
“Don’t forget the Gaffer!” Sam piped up, “Or Rosie,” he added in a more subdued voice. “I wouldn’t want to be all by myself in my own hobbit hole. That would get too lonely.”
“So it would,” Frodo agreed. “Rosie and the Gaffer could come, and all of our holes could be connected at the center of the hill, so we could see each other often.”
“What a life that would be,” Sam sighed happily, looking up at the stars. “And we could go visit the elves whenever we wanted.”
As Sam gazed happily toward Rivendell, remembering, Frodo felt a rush of affection for him and, with an excited squirming behind his navel and a corresponding warmth in his penis, a desire for Sam to tickle him again, a desire to feel that lovely thrill of surrender and affection. However, since his love for being tickled was entirely new, he was not sure how to go about requesting this from Sam – flat-out asking seemed awkward and out-of-the-question.
So instead, he gave a loud, yodeling yawn, stretched his arms above his head as he lay on the grass, and arched his back slightly so that the bottom of his tunic slid up over his navel. He prolonged the yawn as long as he could do so shamelessly, and then when it seemed that Sam did not notice his nonverbal plea for attention, he slid his hands over his eyes, trying to dispel a sense of disappointment.
Only a second later, Frodo jumped as he felt Sam’s warm, rough fingers slide up the hem of his tunic to the top of his ribs – with a thrill of anticipation, Frodo felt the warmth of Sam’s breath as the latter bent over and finally landed a soft, ticklish kiss just above his navel, gently nuzzling his face into Frodo’s skin. Frodo giggled lightly and his feet jerked a little, but he made no attempts to escape.
Sam drew back, smoothed Frodo’s tunic down again, and smiled. “I think we’ve got a lovely, laughter-filled journey ahead of us, Mr. Frodo,” he commented slyly, lying down and propping himself up on his elbow on his own blanket.
Frodo, glowing from the success of his feigned yawn and the exhilaration of the subsequent tickles, smiled back. “I think that’s fair to say, Sam.”
Sam turned on his back and closed his eyes, pulling the blanket up to his chin. “And besides,” he said sleepily, “I always heard an old wives tale back in the Shire about laughter being healthy for you, like exercise. If we keep it up long enough, you might just end up as strong as Strider after all…”
Merry and Pippin cheered and collapsed onto the soft grass in relief. Bill the pony cantered down the hill to graze on the tall grass by the trees. The others chatted and sang cheerily as they built a fire and prepared some of their salted meat and bread for roasting. Once the fire was kindled, Gandalf and Aragorn walked to the south edge of the hill, looking at the far-off, formidable peak of Caradhras that jutted above the austere Misty Mountains, which bordered the east as far as they could see, until they dissolved in the red horizon. Gandalf looked troubled and Aragorn merely watchful, scanning the skies for signs of the unfriendly spies of Saruman.
“Our water skins are getting light,” Boromir commented, weighing his own in his hand. “Perhaps one of us should try to locate the stream, and carry some water back. I saw it wind away through the trees over there,” he gestured toward the small thicket of trees off to the west, which swayed gently in the breeze.
“I will go, Boromir,” said Legolas, stepping lightly over to stand beside him. “My eyes are sharp, and I can see the glimmer of the Elbenoriel hiding snugly among the pine trees, breathing in their winter scent as it trickles past…”
“If we let an elf go, then we will wait hours for him to finish composing songs about the ripples made by the wind on the water,” Gimli said disdainfully. “My eyes may not be so keen, but I have a dwarf’s nose, and I can smell where the air is fresh, and where the water is the sweetest.”
“Well, come with me, then, Master Dwarf,” Legolas leapt a bit of the way down the hill, smiling cheekily, “and together we will find the sweetest and brightest water to be had.”
With a grudging smile, Gimli trudged after him and the two mismatched companions disappeared in the trees.
Pipe smoke drifted up along with the smoke from the fire, and Sam felt a painful longing for the Shire as he caught the musky scent of Pippin’s weed. Pippin and Merry were lying on their backs, looking up at the jagged mountaintops high above them, and blowing smoke rings.
Gandalf looked over disapprovingly as he nudged the fire higher with a log.
“Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took,” he stood over them, his thick brows furrowed. “Much as I hate to interrupt your merry-making, I find it necessary to remind you that we are out in the open, vulnerable to the gaze of Isengard, and it may do you well to keep your wits about you.”
“It’s just a bit of weed, Gandalf!” wheedled Merry. “We won’t lose our wits, we promise!”
“Promise, my foot. I’d as soon eat my staff as trust the promise of a tired hobbit already half-high on Shire-weed.” Gandalf barely kept himself from smiling. “Nevertheless, if you want to eat within the next hour or so, I suggest that you put your pipes aside and come help at the fire.”
Propping himself up on his elbow, Pippin interjected, “But Gandalf, if you can’t even trust a tired hobbit half-high on Shire-weed to keep his wits about him, how on Middle-Earth could you expect him to cook without setting the grass ablaze?”
He and Merry rolled around on the grass, laughing and shoving each other playfully. “Fool of a Took,” Gandalf muttered as he rejoined Boromir and Aragorn at the fire.
Grinning, Sam walked to the north side of the hill, where Frodo sat, looking pensively in the direction of Rivendell. Hearing him approach, Frodo turned and smiled up at him. “Sam,” he said simply, by way of greeting, and patted the grass beside him. Sam flopped down and looked northward with Frodo.
“It is so difficult to get used to the fact that we’ve left the one place where we could have been safe and happy for a long time, only to walk further into danger,” said Frodo thoughtfully.
“Well, Mr. Frodo,” said Sam. “I think you’re right as it’s an odd feeling, and a mighty unpleasant one too, when you think of these spies and these Nazgul what keep following us around everywhere – but as I understood it, it seemed like we wouldn’t be safe forever no matter where we stayed. Best to get the job done with, I think, before even fair places like Rivendell get overrun with darkness.”
Frodo sighed. “Of course you’re right again, Sam. I just wish I weren’t the one who had to do the job.”
“So do all who live to see such times,” Gandalf had wandered over, leaving Boromir to turn the meat on the make-shift spit. “But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that –“
“Not yet, Gandalf!” Boromir called.
“Oh yes, quite right, Boromir,” Gandalf shook his head distractedly, straightening his tall, weather-beaten hat. He walked slowly back over to the fire. “I was saving my inspiring monologue for a later day.”
Sam didn’t like to see his master looking so down-trodden. He gave him a gentle push on the shoulder. “Hey, now, Mr. Frodo,” he said bracingly. “It’s not so bad as you’re making it out – look here,” he pointed back over his shoulder at the fire, “every evening a barbecue, just like summertime back in the old Shire, and every night we get to sleep beneath the stars.” Sam grinned at Frodo, and Frodo smiled weakly back.
“And what’s more,” Sam pressed on, “we’re going places we never would’ve gone otherwise, and making friends with all kinds of folk – folk who, even though they never knew us before, are willing to walk right into the Shadow with us. Do you think Lobelia and Lotho Sackville-Baggins, or any other hobbit for that matter, would come tramping about with us, braving trolls and orcs and the like?”
Frodo snorted. He had no doubt that Lobelia and Lotho, his greedy relatives, were keeping watch on his house and waiting for the legal period to pass after which time they could loot all of his belongings.
“See?” said Sam, encouraged by Frodo’s laughter. “And what’s more,” Sam’s eyes roved over Frodo, hoping to boost his confidence with a personal compliment. “All this tramping about, speaking of it, has done you some good – I reckon you’ll have no trouble finding yourself a lovely wife when we return –“
“And will you finally speak to Rosie of your feelings?” Frodo asked exasperatedly. Sam blushed.
“Maybe I shall,” he muttered, “But you’re changing the subject!” he said. “I mean, after all this walking, you’ve gotten all strong and muscled, just like Mr. Strider.”
Frodo chuckled again. “You’re jesting, Sam. I don’t look anything like Aragorn.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure!” Sam declared. He hesitated, then shyly reached out a hand. “Why, look at the muscles on your legs…” Frodo was taken by surprise when Sam gave his thigh a little squeeze. He jumped with a squawk, and rolled away from Sam.
“What’s the matter, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked, concerned. “Are your muscles aching?”
Frodo sat up a few feet away from Sam and continued scooting away as Sam made to crawl closer again. He found himself curiously unable to suppress nervous giggles, which bubbled up as Sam moved closer to him, reaching out to touch him again.
“No, Sam, I’m not hurting – it’s just, well,” Frodo drew his knees up protectively and wrapped his arms around them, trying to beat down the urge to giggle and run away. “It’s just that I’m frightfully ticklish.” He tried to keep from smiling involuntarily and to look at Sam with serious eyes, hoping that Sam would leave the subject there.
But Sam had other ideas. He thought a bit of laughter would be just the thing to loosen his master up. Besides, he felt a warm, excited pleasantness where his penis had suddenly grown hard, rubbing against the fabric of the pants his Gaffer had sewn him back home.
“Ticklish, Mr. Frodo?” he asked with a grin, reaching for Frodo’s bare ankle, which Frodo jerked out of his reach. “I didn’t know that about you!”
“Don’t, Sam!” said Frodo, now giggling in earnest, pushing himself backward away from Sam, but clearly unwilling to turn his back on him.
Sam ignored him and with a lunge, managed to grab both of Frodo’s ankles at once. With little effort (Sam was bigger and stronger than Frodo after all, which Frodo was quickly realizing to his dismay), Sam pulled Frodo toward him and then sat on his calves. Frodo struggled helplessly, but his anticipatory giggles were already sapping him of energy.
“What would happen,” Sam began teasingly, “If I were just to reach a hand back and tickle the soles of your poor, trapped feet?”
Sam felt Frodo’s feet clench and jerk beneath him, but Frodo was unable to extricate himself. “Please – no!” he begged, but Sam’s right hand was already drifting behind him, out of Frodo’s sight. Frodo braced himself, but it wasn’t enough to protect him against the shock of Sam’s fingers lightly tickling the soft, exposed sole of his right foot.
“ahahahaha – Sam – hahahah – stahahahap!” Frodo giggled. When he couldn’t move his foot, he resorted to twisting the rest of his body, trying to get out from under Sam, but it was impossible. He fell back and shrieked when Sam suddenly switched to his other foot, which felt even more ticklish than his right foot.
Sam was gazing at Frodo’s twitching foot, grinning as he listened to his high-pitched giggles. Frodo’s struggling legs rubbed against his throbbing penis, augmenting the warm thrills of pleasure that coursed through him as he continued to listen to Frodo laugh.
All of a sudden, Sam felt a hand tickle his right side under his ribs, tight from turning around to look at Frodo’s feet. Surprised, he fell over, clutching his side and laughing. Frodo had gained enough control of himself to lean over and tickle him, and then he made his escape, leaping to his feet and running down the hill toward the trees.
Sam jumped up and beckoned to Merry and Pippin. “Come on, lads! Let’s give Mr. Frodo a good laugh!” They didn’t need any convincing - having watched the scene between Frodo and Sam with great amusement, they were both eager to partake in the fun. As they watched the hobbits go, Aragorn and Boromir chuckled and Gandalf rolled his eyes, sprinkling some salt over the roasting meat.
“Gloomy as he’s been,” Merry piped up as they plodded down the hill together toward the place where Frodo had disappeared. “he could use a good tickle.”
“Fair point,” said Pippin, gesturing for them to be quiet as they tiptoed toward the outer trees. “Haven’t heard the poor hobbit laugh since we left Rivendell.”
Merry paused and leaned against the tree. “You know, now I think on it, Frodo never was the playful sort – never got into the wrestling and tickling fights that we all had as lads.”
“Probably because he’s so ticklish,” Sam couldn’t keep the delight out of his voice. “He might have been afraid that everyone’d gang up on him and tickle him silly…”
“You mean like what we’re about to do?” Pippin asked sarcastically.
“Yes,” Sam said, unabashed. “It’s like Merry said – he could use a good laugh.”
“Well, how are we going to find him? He could be hiding anywhere.”
They all peered through the sparse boughs, but all was still and quiet except for the far-off singing of the river. Sam thought he could even hear Gimli’s gruff voice singing a dwarf song in the distance.
“Do you think he’s got the ring on?” Pippin asked.
“No,” Sam shook his head. “He wouldn’t do that unless he felt really cornered. Plus he knows Strider will get cross with him if he does – since the Nazgul can find him easier when he does that.”
“I know what to do!” said Merry suddenly. “Sometimes really ticklish people will start laughing even if you just suggest tickling to them, so we might be able to get him to laugh and reveal his location.”
Remembering how Frodo had giggled and backed away when he wasn’t even touching him, Sam grinned and nodded. He took a step forward into the trees and started to taunt Frodo in a sing-song voice:
“Mr. Froooo-doooo,” he called. “We know you’re in here somewhere, and when we find you, Merry and Pippin are going to hold you down so you can’t move a muscle, and then…I’m going to tickle you all over your poor, helpless body…from your soft, ticklish feet all the way up your ribs to your armpits and ears – and you’ll just have to lay there and giggle and laugh until we’re all finished with you.”
About ten feet away, Frodo crouched behind a relatively thick tree with his hands clamped over his mouth. His face was red from the effort of keeping silent, but giggles bubbled forth unwillingly from his belly, threatening to betray him. He wanted to climb his tree to get into a more secure position, but none of the surrounding trees had low hanging branches, and the others were sure to see him if he started to scramble up the trunk.
“Mr. Frooo-dooo,” Sam’s voice was closer now and Frodo let out a small squeak of surprise before freezing in horror. Had Sam heard? Whether or not he had, he continued taunting Frodo. “I know you’re close by Mr. Frodo,” he cooed. “There’s only so far you could have gone, and the longer you hide, the longer we’ll tickle you…” Frodo heard the scuff of dirt just on the other side of his tree and he bolted away without thinking.
“There he is!” Pippin pointed at him, and soon the others were in hot pursuit. Sam had still been about 5 feet away, so Frodo was not sure what had made the scuffing sound so close to his tree, but he certainly wasn’t pausing to find out. He darted between the tree trunks and felt a mounting panic as he heard Sam’s thunderous footsteps catch up with him.
He could see a clearing ahead, through another patch of trees. He steered for it, hoping there might be some brush to hide behind, or at least an opportunity to fake the other hobbits out and then dart back into the trees, but just as he neared the line of trees, he tripped over a protruding root and toppled over. Before he could even get onto his knees to crawl, Sam was on him, his legs athwart his waist. Desperately, Frodo reached up and caught Sam’s hands, anything to keep him from tickling him.
Merry and Pippin caught up moments later. “All right, lads, get his hands,” said Sam.
“No!” cried Frodo, but Merry and Pippin had already each seized a wrist and pinned it down on either side of Frodo’s head. Sam then unbuttoned Frodo’s tunic, exposing his bare tummy and the ring on the chain he wore around his neck. Turning around, Sam pulled down Frodo’s trousers and set them on the forest floor. Then he feasted his eyes on Frodo’s trembling body.
“Hmm, where shall I tickle?” he asked gently. Frodo giggled a little at the sound of the word. But he had stopped protesting for the time being – he knew that he had to reserve his breath. Sam continued, “I see two vulnerable, tender little underarms. Might they be ticklish?”
“No!” Frodo gasped as Sam’s index fingers inched their way down toward his armpits, batting the air threateningly as they went. He struggled with all of his might, but Pippin and Merry weren’t budging.
“If you do this,” Frodo burst out desperately as Sam’s fingers shifted the fabric of his tunic away from his armpits, “I won’t speak to any of you lads for –heeeheeheehahahaSTOP!! HahahahahaPLEASE!”
Sam was barely touching him, just lightly brushing his fingertips back and forth inside the hollow of his underarms, but it was enough to send that awful lightness jittering through his nerves, making his body feel vulnerable and out of control, and the fact that he couldn’t move or get away from the devastating touch made it so much worse, all he could do was thrash his head from side to side and giggle helplessly.
Sam was enjoying himself, watching his master laugh as he had never laughed before, watching his face turn red and tears of mirth pool at the corners of his eyes. Every now and then he gave Frodo a little break, marching his index and middle fingers up toward Frodo’s elbows and stroking there for a moment, keeping Frodo on the verge of anticipatory giggles, before sliding his fingers back toward his ticklish armpits again – all the while, Frodo gasping between giggles, “No hehehe Sam, don’t hahahaha, not there again, nononoHAHAHAHASTOP!”
So it continued for several minutes, until Sam decided he should move to a different part of Frodo’s body.
“So Mr. Frodo, where are you most ticklish?” Sam asked him teasingly, drawing a single fingertip from Frodo’s elbow, down past his armpit, and along the jutting ribs of his left side. Frodo shivered and giggled softly.
“I won’t tell you,” Frodo said, as defiantly as possible between giggles. “You’re going to do it either way, so it doesn’t matter if I tell you or not.”
“Well, in that case, I guess you leave me no choice but to start with a nice massage of your knees and thighs and then…work my way up, hmmm?” Sam scooted down a few inches so that he was again sitting on Frodo’s calves. When Frodo didn’t answer and instead closed his eyes, seemingly to brace himself, Sam reached behind him and gave Frodo’s left foot a quick tickle. Frodo gave a yelp of surprise, his eyes springing open again, and then laughed, trying to clench his foot away from Sam’s fingers. But Sam had already stopped tickling there and had now posed his thumb and forefinger of each hand on either side of Frodo’s knees.
An unwilling grin lit up Frodo’s face as Sam slid his fingers alternately up and down, not tickling yet but threatening to do so at any moment.
“Come on, Sam,” Frodo pleaded, the seriousness of his voice undermined by the snorts and chuckles that interrupted it as Sam teased him. “Just – let me go, and we can head back to the camp – we – we ought to – HEY, stop that! HeheheHAHAHAhehehe!” He lost his train of thought as Sam’s fingers did a quick series of squeezes up his left leg, all the way to the hip and then back down to the knee, each squeeze like a surge of ticklish electricity in his immobilized leg. “Let me finish!” he gasped as Sam resumed his light teasing near the knees. “I was saying, we ought to be helping Gandalf, Aragorn, and Boromir with the cooking. We should be pulling our weight, too.”
“Well Frodo, I don’t think the others’ll mind so much,” Merry supplied. “Part of pulling our weight is keeping up morale, and Sam and Pippin and I have noticed that lately you’ve been mighty gloomy -”
“-Mighty gloomy, indeed,” Pippin echoed solemnly.
“-and so we thought a good tickle would loosen you up, is all,” Merry finished.
Frodo closed his eyes for a moment at the injustice of it. “How am I supposed to be anything other than gloomy,” he asked quietly, “When we are miles away from home, in terrible danger, and heading toward Mordor, where we’re more likely than not to be captured, tortured, and killed?”
“Well, see, you’re focusing too much on the negative, Frodo,” Pippin responded, still in a light, clinical voice, as though he were a doctor explaining the importance of medicine to a resistant two-year-old patient. “Perhaps once we’ve finished with your – ah – laughter therapy, then you’ll be more willing to look at this journey as an adventure with friends.”
“Friends wouldn’t pin me down and inflict this – this – indignity on me,” Frodo burst out angrily.
Sam cocked his head to the side and widened his brown eyes sympathetically. “It’s for your own good, Mr. Frodo.” Then, without warning, he squeezed both of Frodo’s knees, shifting his fingers up and down over Frodo’s thighs, squeezing rapidly all the while.
Frodo screamed, it tickled so much. Merry and Pippin had to readjust their grip on his wrists because he bucked so strongly. It was agony, absolute agony – Sam’s fingers dug into the most ticklish crevices along his thighs, squeezing them over and over and moving on before Frodo could become desensitized - it was unbearable – but he couldn’t get away. He could only lay there and laugh endlessly, hoping that he wouldn’t run out of breath. Until –
“NO SAM NOT THERE!” Sam paused curiously with his fingers poised above the tender white skin of Frodo’s inner thighs. Frodo was struggling harder than ever now, his eyes frenzied, twisting his legs inward to try to protect that soft, soft skin. Sam sat back cross-legged, holding each of Frodo’s legs in the fold beneath his bent knees, so that Frodo’s legs were still immobilized, but now wrenched apart from each other.
Sam smiled and placed his index and middle fingers on the inside of Frodo’s knees. Gently, he began walking his fingers up toward Frodo’s tender inner thighs, Frodo breathing hard all the while, lifting his head to try to see what Sam was doing. As soon as Sam’s fingers reached his inner thighs, he began to dissolve into helpless giggles, his head falling back and his eyes shut tight. His nervous laughter became louder as Sam added more fingers, spidering lightly over the skin.
Then Sam lodged his fingers at the very top of Frodo’s inner thighs, squeezing the skin rapidly between them. Frodo shrieked and then shook momentarily with silent laughter before his voice and breath came back, an octave higher than before. He thrust his hips upward to each side, trying to escape, but eventually fell back, fatigued, laughing and begging for mercy.
Sam pulled back his hands and watched Frodo’s face. It was bright red and sweaty now, the roots of his hair damp where the sweat had trickled down. Tears streamed from the corners of his eyes.
“So was that your most ticklish spot then?” Pippin asked Frodo, peering at him upside down. “Your thighs? Because you were laughing pretty hard.”
“Go to hell!” Frodo barked, then immediately succumbed to giggles again when Merry reached over to tickle his left thigh. All of a sudden, his left hand was free – Merry had lost his grip on it when he’d reached over to tickle him, and Frodo thrust it down to block his thigh, his fingers scrabbling against Merry’s. Merry fell back, laughing, and Frodo rested his still-free hand on his stomach. He was exhausted but exhilarated at the same time. It felt like his whole body was tingling, and not in an entirely bad way.
“OK Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, “One more spot and then we’ll let you up.” Sam’s brown eyes bestowed a meaningful look on Frodo’s stomach.
Frodo felt a light, anticipatory swooping beneath the hand that rested on his stomach, as though a small fish had leapt just under the surface of his tummy – and again, Frodo giggled nervously. He fanned out his fingers as far as they would go and dug them into the flesh of his own stomach, as though he could anchor his hand there and protect himself.
Sam watched Frodo’s futile attempts to protect himself with relish. “Do you have a ticklish tummy, Mr. Frodo?” he asked teasingly.
Frodo shook his head wordlessly, knowing that it would be no good.
“I think you do,” said Sam in a maddeningly sing-song voice. He poked the parts of Frodo’s stomach and sides that he couldn’t cover with his hand, and Frodo accordingly shifted his hand around, trying to block the skin as he giggled again. “I think your tummy might be even more ticklish than your thighs…And do you know what I’m going to do, Mr. Frodo?”
Sam scooted forward again and then leaned across Frodo’s trembling, naked body until his lips rested against his ear. “I’m going to very gently…kiss…and tickle…and nibble your delicious tummy with my lips, and listen to that sweet, giggly laugh of yours.
The flutter of Sam’s lips tickled, but Frodo felt a surge of panic as Sam pulled away again, his words echoing in his mind.
“Get his hand again, Merry,” Sam said, and for the first time that evening, Frodo thought of using the ring. He felt the cool metal circle against his bare chest. But then he remembered that the ring only made him invisible – he would still be pinned to the ground, unable to escape his ticklish predicament.
Frodo’s hand must have twitched upward, because Sam suddenly chuckled as Merry dragged Frodo’s struggling wrist away from his stomach. “That’s good thinking, Mr. Frodo, not using the ring,” Sam said as he stretched out his own legs and slowly lowered his head closer to the ground so that his face was level with Frodo’s stomach. Now he could see little splotches of freckles near Frodo’s bony hips and a coffee-colored birthmark above and to the right of Frodo’s bellybutton that reminded him of a spot on a cow. “If you had,” Sam continued, “We’d’ve just had to give you more tickles for punishment.”
As Sam spoke, Frodo could feel his breath against his stomach, this private, tender part of him that was almost always guarded by clothes and by his arms, which he habitually clasped in front of his stomach when he was resting. Now, both of his arms were pinned uselessly above his head and his bare tummy felt frighteningly exposed and vulnerable.
Then he felt the profile of Sam’s lips and rather flat nose, barely caressing the surface of his tummy above his belly button, gently kissing an outline around his birthmark.
Giggles bubbled forth from his lips. Sam’s kisses were like the flutter of butterfly wings across his skin, constantly shifting from his ribs to his navel, then down to one hip and across the center to the other hip. It tickled more than the squeezes to his thighs, but because it was gentler, he didn’t laugh as loudly. Occasionally, when Sam found a spot that got a bigger reaction, he would nuzzle his face gently into that spot, like the small hollow just beneath Frodo’s jutting ribs – and Frodo’s giggles would quicken and grow higher-pitched. He could feel goosebumps blossoming across his skin, and unlike earlier, he was conscious of the others talking, of Merry saying, “Oooh, look at those goosebumps come up.”
“Yeah, you know, if I didn’t know better,” Pippin added on his right. “I’d think he was actually enjoying this – Oh, wait, now what’s this?”
With a wave of mortification, Frodo realized that his penis, previously shriveled up, was now elongating, standing almost straight up. Almost as though one thing led to another, Frodo heard himself unconsciously uttering a moan along with an extra spurt of giggles as Sam gripped Frodo on either side of his hips and blew a slow, soft raspberry just above his bellybutton. Much as he had hated and feared tickling all his life, Frodo acknowledged that there was something undeniably pleasurable about this light, fluttery tickling that kept his giggling tumbling out in a constant stream – indeed, something pleasurable about the intimate touch of lips against his skin, lips that smiled in response to his laughter as they roved about.
“What in the name of Thror under the mountain are you hobbits doing?” The gruff voice of Gimli spoke behind Frodo’s head. Frodo reasoned that he and Legolas must have been returning from their trip to fetch water. Perhaps the river was just through the line of trees ahead.
To Frodo’s relief (but also, somewhat, to his disappointment), Sam withdrew his face from his stomach and sat up. Frodo breathed deeply and quietly enjoyed the tingling of his skin where he had been tickled, as well as a lingering tingle along his penis, which still stood erect. Before Sam could respond to Gimli, Pippin said simply, “Tickling Frodo.”
Gimli nodded as he took in the whole scene. “Seems awfully unfair of so many to gang up on just one, though,” he commented nonchalantly. “Dishonorable. Or at least it would be considered that way among dwarves.”
Pippin looked a little abashed, but Merry spoke up. “It was just a bit of a prank, Gimli. It’s not as if we were really bullying him.”
Frodo snorted indignantly, but immediately let loose another stream of unwilling giggles as Merry tickled the underarm of the arm he was pinning. “Hush, you,” Merry told him playfully. “You know as well as we do that you’ve enjoyed at least the last few minutes of it. Come see, Gimli!”
Seemingly in spite of himself, Gimli stepped closer and said, “Oh my, that *does* look like someone’s enjoying themselves.”
“He likes to have his tummy tickled,” Sam informed Gimli, smiling down kindly at Frodo as the latter giggled and squirmed in anticipation of more tickles.
“Is that right, Frodo?” Gimli leaned forward so that the very tip of his long, trailing beard slid across the tight skin of Frodo’s stomach. Frodo immediately began to quake anew with laughter.
“Gimli hahaha stop it, c’mon hehehe, let me up now, guys – HAHA!” Frodo screeched as Sam landed another raspberry on his bottom-left rib. Soon, Sam’s lips were dappling his stomach with tender nibbles, Gimli’s scraggly beard drifted along his legs and dipped to tickle his toes and soles, and Merry and Pippin mercilessly tickled his underarms with lightly poking and spidering fingers – within thirty seconds, Frodo was reduced to tears and giddy laughter again, but all of the light, ticklish swooping, now besieging his entire body, seemed to be channeled pleasurably toward his warm, throbbing penis. He noticed his back was arching, and he was not sure whether he was going to pee or cum, but whatever it was, he wouldn’t be able to hold it back much longer –
With a great shivering and sense of release, Frodo came. Gimli immediately cursed and hurried back to the river to wash the cum out of his beard, Merry and Pippin laughing at him as he ran. The hobbits finally released Frodo, but he was so exhausted and overwhelmed by the lingering pleasure that all he could do for several moments was lie back on the grass, which felt as comfortable as his soft, down bed back in the Shire.
“Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked softly after a few minutes. His voice sounded nervous and uncertain, as though he were worried that Frodo would be angry with him. Frodo opened his eyes a fraction and saw that Merry and Pippin had left – he heard their voices mingling in the distance with those of Gimli and Legolas as the four of them walked back to camp.
Frodo blinked up at Sam’s anxious face. “Yes, Sam?” he asked.
“I was thinking we ought to get you washed up in the river,” Sam said, “And then I could carry you back up the hill, if you’d like – I can see you’re mighty tired.” Sam managed a weak smile, before saying, “Mr. Frodo?” again.
“Yes, Sam.”
“You’re not…not…” Sam hesitated. “Well, I hope you’re not too sore with me, Mr. Frodo, I didn’t mean to hurt you or embarrass you any, I just – it just was so nice to hear you laugh, and –“
“Sam,” Frodo reached up a hand and pressed it to Sam’s lips. “You don’t need to be sorry. I was afraid of being touched that way before, but now…I mean, that was one of the most exhilarating…most erotic experiences I have ever had.”
All the muscles in Sam’s face and shoulders seemed to melt in relief. “Do you really mean it, Mr. Frodo?” he asked. “You’re not mad?”
Frodo patted his shoulder. “Of course I mean it. I could never stay angry at my Sam.” Sam beamed. “What felt the best,” Frodo continued, gripping Sam around the neck as he effortlessly slid his arms beneath Frodo’s knees and shoulders and scooped him off the ground. “Was your kissing. I had that same out-of-control feeling, but I could feel your lips smiling against my skin, so it was altogether more tender and affectionate, and all of a sudden my laughter felt more…like music – light and free of fear. At that point, it felt nice to laugh.” As they walked, Frodo found himself almost drifting off to sleep again. He took very slow, deep breaths as Sam carried him – Sam smelled just like his cozy rooms at Bag End, and Frodo felt a pervasive feeling of security associated with his old life. Sam edged carefully out to the clearing with the river and then down the bank to the shallow water.
“Your laughter is very musical, if you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said shyly as he set Frodo down on his feet. The two of them bathed together silently, but not self-consciously. Frodo lay back on the smooth stones and let the singing river wash over him.
Once they had finished bathing, Sam helped Frodo, whose thumbs were fumbling from exhaustion, to button his tunic. He hoisted him back into his arms and carried him through the forest and up the hill. This time, Frodo did fall asleep, not waking again until the aroma of freshly roasted meat invaded his nostrils and caused his stomach to growl. The hobbits, Legolas, Gimli, Boromir, Aragorn, and Gandalf all had a merry dinner around the fire with much singing, some dancing, mostly on the part of Merry and Pippin, and some optimistic speculation about how far they had already come.
"I'd wager not two more days 'til we reach the foot of Caradhras!" Gimli growled happily as he gnawed on a residual bone and squinted his eyes to the black peak of the mountain, framed against the dusky sky.
“I wouldn’t wager too quickly if I were you, Gimli,” Gandalf commented soberly, looking seriously at him over his pipe as he blew smoke rings toward the rising moon in the east. “The mountain may look close from the top of this hill, but we still have several leagues of hard walking over uneven ground, some confusing, twisting paths through the rocky foothills, and then Saruman-“
The hobbits immediately became more subdued at the mention of Saruman, but Gimli interrupted Gandalf. “Bah!” he waved his hand dismissively and flecks of meat flew from his teeth. “Gandalf Stormcrow, you’re ruining our revelry. There’s no need to make the lads worry before they have reason to –“
“There’s also no reason to inflate their hearts with false optimism, only to have them break on the rocks of disappointment,” Gandalf inclined his head and raised his eyebrows sagely. “Minimizing the sense of danger of the road ahead will do nothing to make it easier to travel.”
Aragorn and Legolas nodded solemnly. Boromir’s eyebrows were knit together, and his mouth was half-open as though he would speak. Everyone knew what he wanted to say. Sure enough, after a few moments of silence –
“The road need not be so dangerous, Gandalf,” Boromir said. “I have already stated my views on the futility of marching straight toward the gates of Mordor…and my preference for turning our Fellowship toward the South, toward Gondor - the one great hope Middle Earth has left for a free world. And I’ve mentioned the possibility of arming them“ - his voice rose and his eyes glinted with a manic gleam – “with the one weapon that is sure to defeat the enemy –“
Frodo shivered and buried his face in Sam’s shoulder as Boromir’s eyes raked the front of his tunic, behind which the ring lay hidden. Sam put a protective arm around Frodo and glared at Boromir. But before he could say something belligerent, Aragorn spoke in a voice of forced calm.
“That was not the mission outlined at the Council of Elrond,” Aragorn fixed Boromir with his cool, blue stare. “The ring must go to Mordor, and we volunteered to assist the ring-bearer to the full extent of our individual abilities. Your path may very well lead South, Boromir,” Aragorn nodded in a conciliatory manner. “But the ring’s path does not – and I know that many among us would walk to the very edge of the cracks of doom in order to help Frodo. I count myself in that group.”
As he was sitting on Frodo’s other side, he was able to easily reach over and squeeze his shoulder. Frodo looked over from Sam’s shoulder and smiled, and Sam nodded approvingly at Aragorn.
Boromir nodded quickly and subsided into a cloudy silence. Gradually, Merry and Pippin grew louder and merrier in proportion to the alcohol and Shire weed that they consumed. The festive mood returned to the fire, but Sam and Frodo, who were both exhausted, bid goodnight to everyone and retired to their north-facing side of the hill before everyone else.
They fluffed out their blankets and lowered them, fluttering, to the ground. Frodo lay down in his blankets and immediately curled himself around them so he was in a cozy sort of nest. He patted the soft grass of the hill as Sam settled down in an upright, sitting position.
“This would be a good hill for hobbit homes,” Frodo remarked nonchalantly.
“You think so, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked musingly. “Certainly a lot of room here – probably could fit four or five good sized holes if you put them all around the hill. But I don’t think any hobbits – at least any hobbits from the Shire – would ever move out here where things are so wild.”
Frodo laughed, imagining his conservative friends and relatives and what they would think of living in a hobbit hole so far from the Shire, in the menacing shadow of these gigantic mountains.
“So it’ll just be me, you, Merry and Pippin, and Bilbo,” said Frodo. “We could each have our own hobbit hole around the hill.”
“Don’t forget the Gaffer!” Sam piped up, “Or Rosie,” he added in a more subdued voice. “I wouldn’t want to be all by myself in my own hobbit hole. That would get too lonely.”
“So it would,” Frodo agreed. “Rosie and the Gaffer could come, and all of our holes could be connected at the center of the hill, so we could see each other often.”
“What a life that would be,” Sam sighed happily, looking up at the stars. “And we could go visit the elves whenever we wanted.”
As Sam gazed happily toward Rivendell, remembering, Frodo felt a rush of affection for him and, with an excited squirming behind his navel and a corresponding warmth in his penis, a desire for Sam to tickle him again, a desire to feel that lovely thrill of surrender and affection. However, since his love for being tickled was entirely new, he was not sure how to go about requesting this from Sam – flat-out asking seemed awkward and out-of-the-question.
So instead, he gave a loud, yodeling yawn, stretched his arms above his head as he lay on the grass, and arched his back slightly so that the bottom of his tunic slid up over his navel. He prolonged the yawn as long as he could do so shamelessly, and then when it seemed that Sam did not notice his nonverbal plea for attention, he slid his hands over his eyes, trying to dispel a sense of disappointment.
Only a second later, Frodo jumped as he felt Sam’s warm, rough fingers slide up the hem of his tunic to the top of his ribs – with a thrill of anticipation, Frodo felt the warmth of Sam’s breath as the latter bent over and finally landed a soft, ticklish kiss just above his navel, gently nuzzling his face into Frodo’s skin. Frodo giggled lightly and his feet jerked a little, but he made no attempts to escape.
Sam drew back, smoothed Frodo’s tunic down again, and smiled. “I think we’ve got a lovely, laughter-filled journey ahead of us, Mr. Frodo,” he commented slyly, lying down and propping himself up on his elbow on his own blanket.
Frodo, glowing from the success of his feigned yawn and the exhilaration of the subsequent tickles, smiled back. “I think that’s fair to say, Sam.”
Sam turned on his back and closed his eyes, pulling the blanket up to his chin. “And besides,” he said sleepily, “I always heard an old wives tale back in the Shire about laughter being healthy for you, like exercise. If we keep it up long enough, you might just end up as strong as Strider after all…”
