The night of the same day, June 25 ~ Rosamunda’s cottage.
Swabbed down and satisfied from their meal, Frodo and Rosamunda lounged under the summer coverlet upon her bed. It was a beautiful night. A breeze stirred and the songs of crickets and frogs rose from the sloughs to make their way into the room. The moon was high and through the window its silver spilled across the floor. Otherwise the room was dark, so Rosamunda had lit the candle on the bedside stand.
Propped on piled pillows, Rosamunda lay on her back with one arm flung up behind her head. The fingers of her other hand threaded loosely through the coils of Frodo’s damp hair, twirling them into silky spirals between her thumb and forefinger. Frodo lolled next to her, his cheek upon the pillow beside her shoulder. One leg was thrown over hers, which he drew languidly up and down for the feel of it. His arm was draped across her ribs and he fingered her hair and drew designs over her skin.
“May I ask you something, Rosa?” Frodo said, tracing the rounds of her breasts and making little stops and starts for punctuation.
“You may ask me what ever you wish,” she said. “But,” she warned, “I shall reserve the privilege of not answering.”
Her bantering answer seemed to have silenced him. “You may ask me whatever you wish, Frodo,” she offered more softly, stroking his cheek, “Do not be afraid.”
Frodo snuggled a little closer.
“Do you still miss Odovacar?” he asked.
Her eyes softened. “Yes, I do. That is, I did,” she corrected herself. “At first, I missed him terribly. But eventually I got used to his not being there any more.” Darkly she murmured, “Time is like that….”
Recalling her guest, she bestirred herself and said more pleasantly, “No, I do not miss him; not the way I once did, if that is what you mean, Frodo.”
“Do you mind, Rosa – when I ask you about Odovacar?” he asked tentatively, gazing up at her.
“No. Not really,” she smiled. “I loved him, but, well, now he is gone.”
Frodo was silent while his fingers made looping figures between her breasts. Then he let them trail up her throat to her face, his eyes following. They glittered in the candlelight. “But … don’t you miss it? – doing this?” he asked.
She took his hand and kissed it. “Making love? Yes, very much. But I got used to it – not having it, that is.”
“Oh, Rosa,” he cried, pressing his cheek to her breast as he gave her a mighty squeeze, “I don't know how you could have borne it!”
“A very lover-like speech, but it is possible to bear,” she said, amused but touched. “What about you? You do not seem to have cut any wanton swath through the Shire. At least, not that I can tell,” she chuckled.
Frodo’s head snapped up. “What do you know about it?”
“I have made it my business to know,” she answered easily, noting his apologetic smile. To let him know no offence was taken she joked, “I have kept my eye on you, Frodo Baggins. What sort of auntie would I be if I did not?”
“But you are not my auntie – anymore,” Frodo countered with a soft gaze.
It was a moment before she could answer. “No, not anymore,” she agreed quietly.
Frodo dropped his head back onto the pillow. While his fingers made a fresh circuit, Rosamunda smoothed the back of her hand over his cheek. It was like velvet.
Once more she recalled herself again and asked, “Well? Have you been with a lass? Like this, I mean?”
“No, not like this,” Frodo answered, flashing a grin.
Then, as if he were calling all of his experiences to mind, he stared into the candle’s flame where it burned upon the bedside stand.
“I have been with lasses, but it hasn’t been anything much – just a lot of kissing,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. Almost as an afterthought he had added, “And some other things.”
“Hmmm.… What ‘other things’?” Rosamunda prodded, nuzzling her chin in his curls. She guessed he would like to tell – and she wished to hear it – almost forgetting they had just been lovers.
Frodo wondered how little and how much to tell….
“Well,” he began, “Things did get beyond kissing when I was visiting at the Smials.”
Frodo was thinking of the sisters of Reginard, a Took cousin. Actually, Reginard’s father Adelard was more nearly Frodo’s cousin. But Adelard was a whole generation removed, so Frodo had always called him, “Uncle.” Reginard was not particularly interesting, and neither were his sisters, but they were very pretty. Two of them were near in age to Frodo. A few summers before, when he’d been there for the days of Lithe, things had got very interesting.
“Who was she?”
“Well, there were two of them, actually, some of my cousins.”
“Two! What? Both at once?” Rosamunda said, marvelling.
“No, not at once,” Frodo giggled, “And it was during different summers.”
Returning his cheek to her shoulder, he proceeded to make new circles and loops with the tip of his finger. Rosamunda was making circles, too. Winding his curls around her fingers, she coiled them smaller and smaller. As if in answer, Frodo traced circles around her nearer breast, spiralling up and up until he reached the darker place around her nipple. Up close, the skin had its own lustre and sheen and was exquisitely silky, like no other place on her body. When his finger reached the centre, however, he could not resist and gave her nipple a gentle pinch.
Laughing, she smacked his hand away but caught it again and pressed it to her lips, kissing his fingertips. When she drew one into her mouth, the pleasurable sensations that coursed through Frodo surprised him. So keen was the pleasure he was about to abandon his tale in order to embrace her when she gave his finger a smart nip, as if for good measure. “Ow!” he said, and snatched it away, but as he returned his cheek to its satiny perch, he tingled all over.
“And then, what?” she asked.
Frodo, still tingling, groped in his mind for what he last had said.
“What happened with the cousins at the Smials?” she prompted. “Did you fall in love with them?” she asked, smiling.
“No – not in love!”
Frodo laughed but then he hesitated. How might he relate such adventures? Rosamunda stroked the back of his neck in a manner that reassured him.
“Well,” he began, haltingly at first, “To tell the truth, after that time at Bag End, in the kitchen, I couldn’t stop thinking about you, Rosa – and how it felt to hold you.”
Frodo did not look up at Rosamunda but he felt the squeeze of her fingers in the hair at his nape. Frodo wondered whether he had stirred up memories or had been too blunt. But in another moment her fingers relaxed and she slid them along his scalp. Gently she worked her fingers through his hair in what could only be a sensuous manner.
“Anyway, afterwards,” he began again, “that sort of thing was on my mind quite a lot. But it wasn’t until another summer or two had passed, when I was at the Smials, that I determined to do something about it – if I could.”
Again Frodo wondered if he was being too frank but the rhythm of her fingers as they squeezed and released did not falter.
“Do continue,” she said, “I am listening.” Frodo cleared his throat and went on.
“At first there was no one who suited. Or, I should say, no one who suited whom I suited – if you know what I mean.” He punctuated his remarks with extra kneads and strokes as he smoothed his hand up and down her sides and ran his fingers around her breasts.
“But the next summer, there was someone. Several lads were following her about, but she seemed to fancy me, I don’t know why.”
“Nor do I,” Rosamunda said.
Frodo glanced up, unsure of her meaning.
“Silly,” she said softly, “How could she not?”
Frodo ducked his head at the tenderness of her look, abashed but extremely pleased. He nestled his face in the crook of her neck.
“So,” Rosamunda resumed, clearing her throat, “She seemed to fancy you. And, did she?”
Yes, she did. Very much, if only briefly. Frodo resumed his caresses while memories of their little trysts unfolded in his mind
His first adventure had been with Reginard’s middle sister, Anthea. As the start of Lithe the two of them had reached an understanding. The Smials was so rambling, its grounds so large, and the feast days so hectic it was easy to slip off unobserved for a bit of kissing and harmless fondling. All of this had been extremely nice. Anthea kissed enthusiastically and well, and Frodo had learned a great deal from her.
A few days after the end of Lithe, when they became separated from the others while combing the ground for the last of the wild strawberries, Anthea had pulled Frodo into a dark thicket for an extended session of heated kissing. She still would not let him open her bodice, lest they be surprised by others looking for places to tryst, but she let him touch her under her skirts, if only a very little. She had touched him quite a lot, however, after she had unbuttoned the placket of his breeches. Just the thought of it made him spring into renewed hardness.
Although he had not noticed it, Frodo had slowed his stroking of Rosamunda. He had nearly stopped when her voice broke into his thoughts.
“Well, did she?” Rosamunda said.
Frodo must have looked his puzzlement.
“Did she fancy you?” she asked again.
“Oh!” Frodo answered gratefully, “Yes, as it turned out she did.”
Rosamunda’s eyebrows lifted expectantly; obviously she waited to hear more.
“She – we –” Frodo stammered. He was unsure what he might tell without embarrassing himself or being indiscreet towards his cousin.
“It was … very exciting,” Frodo said at last.
Actually, it had been extremely exciting. Rather too exciting. Frodo had embarrassed himself even as they stood there, fully clothed. Anthea had seemed to think it very funny, but Frodo had been mortified. But he put his shame behind him and had continued to pursue her. But after a few days it was clear that Anthea had lost interest. A handsome Took visiting from Long Cleeve – an older lad who towered over Frodo – had begun to pay her court.
Nevertheless, Frodo’s hopes were revived the following summer. The eldest of Reginard’s sisters, Linnéa, began to show him favour. Linnéa had known what he and Anthea had been up to, she revealed. This had given him a jolt. He feared at first she would tell her father. Adelard Took took a whip to any lad he caught poaching after one of his daughters – or so everyone said. But she was not going to tell, oh, no. In fact, she said, she wanted Frodo for herself!
Linnéa took Frodo to another trysting place, a densely wooded spot not too distant from the Smials. Once they had got there, she had not even bothered kissing him standing up but had lain down at once. Indeed, they had done very little kissing, even lying down. Frodo had not needed any kissing, however. When Linnéa began to pull up her skirts, it was all he could do to contain himself, just from the anticipation.
Unfortunately, Frodo again had become too excited too soon. He had survived Linnéa’s hand (barely), when she began to rub herself against him, skin to skin. It was only her thigh but just the knowledge of their naked bodies touching had been too much for him. What little control remained deserted him and Frodo had gone over the edge. At least he had got his breeches down.
But all was not despair and gloom, Frodo soon learned. Not only he, but Linnéa had been disappointed in brevity of their encounter. She would be willing to meet him, she said, as soon as they should get the chance. They met the very next day in the same place. All was going well, but, alas! – her father must have seen them going off together (or else had been informed). Adelard had followed, bursting upon them in the thicket like an enraged bull. What a sight they must have made! Linnéa was beneath him with her arms about his neck. Frodo was between her thighs, still pushing up her skirts but his breeches were down, leaving his buttocks bare.
Nothing irrevocable yet had taken place, but her father’s voice had filled them both with terror. All their hopes withered before the fire of his wrath, as well as Frodo’s ardour. Linnéa cowered and trembled. Hastily she covered her legs while her father dragged Frodo off her to stand before him. Frodo tried to stand up straight, in spite of his shirt being all askew and his breeches gathered around his feet. Uncle Adelard had been beside himself with fury, brandishing his whip and threatening to geld Frodo then and there, Baggins heir or not.
Later, Bilbo struggled successfully to calm Adelard and Frodo was not sent away. But the summer had been spoiled. Humiliated and shaken, Frodo kept his distance from them all for the remainder of the visit. He had never been so glad to go home.
The following summer Uncle Adelard’s temper had cooled, but, by then Linnéa had liked another.
“Was it not happy for you, then…?” she asked. The gentleness in Rosamunda’s voice recalled him. He had long since stopped caressing her, he realised. She must have been wondering and waiting. Frodo did not trust himself to look at her so he burrowed his face into her shoulder, kissing the softness of her upper arm.
“It was at first,” he said at last, “but we were caught.”
Rosamunda stroked his cheek and kissed his curls, smoothing his hair away from the side of his face. After a time Frodo stirred. Looking into her eyes he ventured his own question.
“Rosa – did you ever do this with anyone besides Odovacar?”
“No,” she answered simply. “Oh, there were lads who kissed me or tried to push their hands up under my skirts, but I had not cared for any of them,” she confided.
Nuzzling the side of his face against her shoulder, Frodo allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. Then he resumed his doodling while she continued, “But when Odovacar kissed me, it was very different.”
“How, ‘different’?” Frodo asked glancing up at her, “Because you loved him?”
“Well, no,” she answered plainly, “For, in fact, I did not love Odovacar right away. But I loved his kisses immediately!” she laughed. “Of course, he had had a great deal of practice before he ever courted me,” she offered in explanation.
Frodo raised himself upon his elbow. “Shall I need a great deal more practice, do you think, Rosa?” he asked knitting his brows anxiously.
Rosamunda did not answer at once but scanned his face, unsure. After a moment she smiled slightly, saying, “No, not a great deal, I should think.”
“What? I was hoping you would say I needed to practice incessantly!”
“You!” she laughed, throwing her head back onto the pillows, baring her throat and affording a glimpse of the shadowy recesses behind her white teeth. Frodo would commence his extra practice right away.
Her abandon before the onslaught of Frodo’s kisses was highly gratifying. She was quite beset. He seized the opportunity to trail his free hand beneath the coverlet. Encountering no resistance, he ran his hand up her thighs and down the satin of her belly before he ventured to touch the springy cushion of hair. She sighed and he dared to reach lower. She opened to him. Feeling bolder still he slid his fingers between into slick, moist, silky warmth. He shuddered even more than she as he insinuated his fingers here and there, apparently to great effect, for Rosamunda sighed deeply, curling into his touch like a rasher in a pan. As Frodo proceeded he felt as though he were entering a labyrinth blindfolded. His fingers found big and little folds that unfurled and closed again at his fingers’ bidding. He had not expected the place between a hobbit woman’s legs to be so … complex. How he would love to see it!
He stopped. Frodo was surprised to hear the sound of their panted breaths in the quiet, much louder than the cricket songs outside. Rosamunda relaxed her legs but looked at him, obviously puzzled. She waited.
She could only say no, he reasoned.
Frodo raised himself on his elbow again and turned to her, searching for the best words. “Rosa,” he began, haltingly, “You said I might ask you anything….”
“I did.” She answered evenly enough, but he saw a flicker of anxiousness in her eyes as she searched his face, no doubt wondering what he might have stopped to ask. The apprehension in her look unsettled Frodo and he swallowed nervously. She must have noticed; she smiled. The smile softened her eyes and warmed her voice as she asked, “What do you wish to ask?”
Frodo found his voice and stammered his request.
“Rosa, may I look at you? May I see you?”
Rosamunda’s eyebrows rose in puzzlement.
“But you have seen me, Frodo. You see me now!”
“Yes, I have seen you – and I do see you,” he continued, “But – not enough.”
“It is rather dark in here,” she conceded, glancing at the bedside candle, now burned down to a stub. “Why not fetch another candle or two? Then you could see much better. Would that suffice?” she inquired graciously.
Frodo felt exasperated – not with her but with himself. He should be bolder and speak plainer. Girding himself, he looked her in the face, and let the words tumble out before he could change his mind.
“I have seen you, Rosa, yes, and, oh, you are beautiful! I would love to look all night – at every part!” Frodo cleared his throat and prodded himself to finish. “But the most interesting parts,” he blurted, “They are not very easy to see, are they…?”
Rosamunda comprehended at last. Her eyes grew wide, and she drew back into the pillows almost imperceptibly. She opened her mouth to speak, and her lips formed an O, but only a wisp sound emerged.
On the bedside table the candle guttered and went out.
Suddenly deprived of light Rosamunda could barely see Frodo’s face before her. He was peering at her, too. But once she had got used to it, the moonlight from the window was enough to make out his features. Very earnestly, he continued.
“I should – I should very much like to look at you, Rosa,” he said, “but all of you….”
Rosamunda felt quite unnerved. That Frodo should want to see her naked was not surprising. Of course he would! Odovacar had loved looking at her. Which hobbit did not wish to feast his eyes upon the body of his lover? But Odovacar had made no such request.
Frodo leaned closer. “May I see you, Rosa?” he beseeched, “– in the light?” At once importunate and tender, it was a face that could not be denied. Rosamunda offered him a softer, almost maiden smile.
“Very well,” she answered rather unsteadily “– if you wish it.”
Frodo rose from the bed and disappeared into the gloom of the parlour. She shivered a little as she waited, listening as he searched about the cottage. He made several trips, bringing candles from every room and standing them on the dressing table opposite the bed. Then she heard rummaging in the kitchen.
When he reappeared in the bedroom doorway, he carried a lighted rush before him. Holding it aloft in his right hand, he shielded it with his left. Rosamunda almost could not breathe, so lovely was his face thus lit. With its flame screened from view, it seemed as though Frodo’s face, not the rush, was the source of light. His face burned out of the darkness like a small sun. Rosamunda lay curled on her side with a pillow plumped under her cheek, the better to behold him as he went to the dressing table and lit each candle in turn. As each wick caught and flared, an answering flame kindled in her until she blazed inside like the room, filled with golden light.
When he had lit every one, Frodo extinguished the rush and laid it on the table. Then he stood beside it, gazing thoughtfully at the floor. Rosamunda gazed, too, but only at Frodo. The commingled radiance of the burning candles bathed his body in liquid gold. All down his side his pale skin glistered and gleamed, reflecting the candles’ warmth. Every curve and dip was delineated; each outward curve casting a velvety shadow. The splendour of so much beauty smote her. She caught her breath and sighed.
At the sound, Frodo glanced up and saw upon Rosamunda’s face a look of rapture. A knot in his chest tightened. To be so looked upon! His pleasure waxed further as her eyes flickered and slid down his belly to where he sprang from the dusky triangle below. She sighed again. So profound was it, it seemed to issue from her very depths. The sound stirred Frodo to speech.
“Do you … you like looking at me, don’t you, Rosa?” he asked. He was sure she did but he wished to hear her say it.
“Oh, yes,” she breathed as if intoxicated by the sight of him, “Looking at you gives me great pleasure!”
Confidence surged through him. “Well, that is the pleasure I want,” Frodo said excitedly. “You may see me – all of me – just by my standing here before you,” he said, glancing down at himself. “But on your body, so much remains hidden ... I mayn’t see you – all of you – unless you let me.”
Frodo went to her, hoping she might see in his face the power of his feelings. Crouching beside the bed he touched her hand where it lay, tightly curled beside her cheek upon the pillow. Gently he turned it over and unfolded her fingers, smoothing them open with his hand as he began to speak.
“I wish to look at you very much, Rosa – just as you have looked at me,” he explained. “You have said you will let me, but … ‘if I wish it….’”
Frodo hesitated a moment, brushing his palm back and forth over hers before he spoke. “I want to see you terribly, Rosa, but only if it gives you pleasure, too. I don’t want you to … submit to it, because I begged it of you.”
Gazing directly into her eyes, he asked her plainly, “Tell me, Rosa, do you wish it?” He could see heat rushing up Rosamunda’s neck, scalding her cheeks. But the fire that burned in her eyes was soft and steady.
“Yes,” she answered, “I wish it.”
Silently Frodo rose and stepped across the planked flooring to the little dressing table, moving all the candles to the nearer edge. He returned to the bed and drew off the clothes. They slithered to the floor. Rosamunda scooted towards the middle in order to make him room. Frodo sat beside her, offered her a reassuring smile, and bent to kiss her. He took his time, letting her desire open her up to him. When he reached between her legs to signal his intentions, a touch sufficed to part her thighs. Then he climbed between her extended legs, propping himself on his elbows. When he had made himself comfortable, he looked into her eyes. In their jetty darkness the reflected candlelight glimmered and leapt, the tongues of flame rising and falling like her breasts as she breathed. Frodo held her gaze, waiting, letting her choose the moment. Then she drew up her knees and let them fall to either side.
“Oh…!” Frodo’s voice was hushed with wonder. “How beautiful you are!” he cried, gazing up at her.
As if his words had been the caresses of his hands, Rosamunda sighed and her eyes flooded with warmth.
Then Frodo dropped his gaze to fill his eyes with what he so long had wished to see, poring over every inch. He had reached to touch her when he checked himself, lifting his eyes to hers first. A melting smile answered his silent request and he let his fingertips alight.
Frodo traced his fingers over the contours of her body, savouring the fineness of her skin, before he trailed his fingers through her springy curls, where he revelled in the plumpness of the mounded V beneath. Then he held his breath and reached lower, taking and testing the pouting fullness of the outer folds, then drawing aside the inner ones like petals, marvelling all the while. The colours were so rich and various – not like anywhere else on her body. He thought of how the two of them matched in this one way, for only in this place was his own skin so richly-hued.
As Frodo touched her, sighs of pleasure were rising from the pillows, sighs which seemed to echo his own, although his sprang more from wonder. Then he noticed a little something nestled at the top of the intricate folds. “What is this?” he asked, indicating with a press of his finger. Rosamunda flinched.
“I am sorry,” he said, “Did that hurt?”
“No,” she answered breathily. “But that is a very sensitive place. Perhaps, if you wet your fingers….” she suggested.
Frodo slipped two in his mouth. “Is that better?” he asked. It certainly was. Tucked up against his ribs he could feel her toes curl as she moaned. Then she helped him make it better still, placing her fingers over his and showing him exactly where and which way and how fast.
"Oh, Frodo!” she gasped brokenly, “That is so wonderful!"
To be the author of such keen pleasure filled Frodo with unparalleled joy. What a sight she made in the candlelight! Completely open to his eyes and hands, her head was tossed back upon the pillow, while her loosened hair spilled across it. Her lips were parted as she drew sharp breaths, exhaling gusty sighs and whimpers. Her whole body quivered beneath his touch, until she was stretched taut and covered in sheen.
Suddenly Frodo paused and lifted his fingers away. Rosamunda uttered a soft, plaintive cry. He kissed the tops of her thighs.
“I just want to look at you one more time, Rosa,” he assured her before he lowered his gaze again.
How mysterious she was in her hidden places. And how powerful was the attraction the places exerted upon him – perhaps all the more because of their concealment. Unlike his parts, so exposed and obvious, hers were cloaked and subtle. As he parted the delicate veiling flesh, Frodo thought how vulnerable she looked. Beneath his fingertips he could feel the throb of her blood, as if her heart beat there, just under her skin. It was as if in this one place he could see the inside on the outside – a secret revealed – a secret just for him. As ruddy and glistening and tender as a wound – a beautiful wound. Impulsively, he kissed it.
That made a stir. He did it again. Rosamunda shuddered and whimpered. Moving higher, he ventured a kiss near the little bud that before he had pressed too hard. Better still! Encouraged by her enthusiastic response, Frodo began to use his mouth in earnest. His experimental nibbles became kisses – true kisses – the kisses of his mouth. With sweeps and flicks of his tongue he sampled and tasted, plucking up the little folds with his lips to mouth and suckle. Rosamunda wriggled and sighed in the most gratifying way.
But when he began to swirl his tongue around the swollen bud, her groans were not to be restrained. "Oh! Oh! Yes! There!” she cried through gritted teeth. Frodo could feel her thighs beginning to tremble. When he lifted his eyes to look at her he saw her head thrust back into the pillows and on her face an expression of agony. Her breasts heaved and her hands shook. When he deepened his kisses to suckles, building a steadier rhythm, she became quite beside herself. Her hips moved in helpless synchronicity as she repeated, “Oh, Frodo! Oh, Frodo – More! – That!” Relentlessly, he increased his tempo until she was uttering only shreds of his name.
Then, all of a sudden, Rosamunda stilled her movements but quivered all over, as if she were held in some state of exquisite suspension. Frodo faltered, wondering, but she reached for him wildly, grasping his shoulders and arms, crying, “No, don’t stop!” He did not stop and soon her breath came in hitches, each exhalation a sharp rasp until she gasped and her body seized. Her fingers clutched and twitched; her teeth clenched, and a stifled groan became a wail as her body snapped and released. Suddenly gone limp, her lungs filled with air and she seemed to expire before him, her lungs emptying with one long, drawn-out sigh.
Frodo did not pause to marvel, for his own need now was very great. He pushed himself up onto his hands and hovered over her only an instant before he sank himself deep inside her, as far as he might go. He thought he would expire, himself, from the glory of it, but he did not. He would not; not this time.
Inside, Rosamunda was very hot and wet – much more so than before. He would not have believed it could have been more delicious than the last time, but it was. He felt himself not only enfolded but clasped in a silky heat that throbbed around him. Rosamunda surprised him by reviving immediately. With a throaty, joyful laugh she embraced him with her legs. They were strong as they furled around the backs of his thighs and held him close and fast, but her hands she could not keep still, shifting restlessly over his body and face, as if she wished to hold him everywhere at once.
The intensity of her pleasure was terribly exciting to him, but Frodo could sense a bit more control remaining to him this time. He did not fear immediate surrender. At first he had indulged himself in a series of long, penetrating thrusts, but these proved dangerously exquisite, especially with Rosamunda moaning and shivering at his every stroke. He found he could more safely make smaller movements, shallow dips like a bird sipping nectar from a flower. Rosamunda made cooing, dove-like noises as she wound her arms around his waist to pull him closer, releasing his thighs to use her feet against the mattress to raise her hips and angle herself differently beneath him.
Then her eyes became desperate with desire and she began to pant. Inside she was wetter than ever, while her heated flesh gripped and squeezed him tighter still. He did not know how he would bear it. Her cries became thin and high as her hands fell away. She was on the brink, he now knew. Faster, he went, delivering quick, chasing thrusts until she gasped his name once. “Frodo!” she cried as her body clenched round him in a series of spasms. Frodo then threw away all restraint and plunged with everything he had and the great oak bed trembled beneath them. As if from far away, he heard her crying out when a great crest of ecstasy curved over him and broke, tumbling him over and over in a froth of pleasure, the great swells surging around him and through him. But as the flood receded, Frodo felt himself borne upon a sea of sweetness. Waves undulated beneath him as they carried him gently onto the warm shingle that was Rosamunda’s breast. He lay there, panting in the ebb.
Rosamunda wrapped her arms about her lover as if her heart would burst from gratitude and joy.
“I had forgotten!” she sobbed into his neck, stroking his hair.
“I want you never to forget me, Rosa,” he said. He held her face between his hands and peered into her face. He wetted his thumb and drew it along the side of her face, just above her cheekbone. She smiled to see a smudge of flour when he lifted it for her inspection. Then he eased himself to the side, gathered her in a loose embrace, draping her with an arm and knee.
As they lay in silence, Rosamunda listened to the sounds of the night and their own breaths as they quieted. The candles were nearly burnt out; a breeze from the window plucking at their flames and making them flicker. She should get up, she thought, and quench them. Frodo would need to shift. But when she turned to speak to him she saw he was already fast asleep.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.