Frodo was expecting a baby bird, perhaps, or a rabbit the cat had been at. Three times in the past fortnight he had seen Sam slip into the potting shed in the middle of the afternoon; it wouldn't have caught his attention at all, except for the slightly furtive glances Sam cast about him before he went in, and how long it took him to come out again. As a lad, Sam had been prone to taking in every sick or hurt animal he could get his hands on, much to the Gaffer's irritation. For the last two years, Sam had been handling the gardening almost entirely on his own, young as he was, and Frodo meant to let him know that he could keep any furry little invalids he liked, so long as it didn't affect how well he kept the garden.

Frodo intended to slip up, throw open the door and catch Sam at nursing or bandaging, give him a proper fright, and then give him permission. How Sam would tremble for that first moment. And he would probably throw himself at Frodo's feet in gratitude. Frodo smiled to himself: sweet, excitable Sam.

The shed door was closed and Frodo paused to peek through the thin spaces between the boards of the wall before going in. That saved him.

Sam was not standing at the potting bench trying to hand-feed caterpillars to a broken-winged dove. He was not crouched over a litter of orphaned puppies. He was lying on the floor of the shed, thin golden sheaves of light from between the slats falling across his chest and belly, and he was bare and straining.

It was very hot, that July, and Sam usually took off his shirt on days when he did something strenuous. This had not gone entirely unnoticed.

The shirt was wadded up under his head. His trousers were pushed down, covering one leg up to the knee, and the other, which was bent up, not at all. Frodo could see the sweat shining across his chest, threads of gold in the spray of hair there. Three years from his coming of age, he had just begun to develop a proper hobbit belly. His thighs were thick and muscular and tense.

Frodo stared in mute and thoughtless astonishment as motes of dust drifted in the golden bands of light, and Sam's blunt, strong hand moved in jerky strokes over his thick, flushed cock. Sam's eyes were squeezed shut tight, and his mouth was open, panting. His head snapped back sometimes, and sometimes he would grit his teeth, hissing through them. One hand kept up that constant, sturdy stroking and the other roamed, across his chest, down his belly, up to his lips. Sam's back was arched, and the big muscles in his thighs bunched and loosened, bunched and loosened.

Frodo's own sessions of self-pleasure were peaceful, sweet, afterthoughts to a day, or dozing grace notes before breakfast. Sometimes he touched himself in the bath, enjoying slick soap. He knew he had never looked like this.

Sam was straining, twisting, jerking, sheened with sweat. Sam was working hard, as hard as he worked in the garden, as hard as when he chopped wood, or carried barrels up from the Green Dragon for Frodo's cellar. He worked for this as for food, for drink. He needed it, that was clear in every line of him -- tightening, tightening, like a bow being drawn slowly to the limit of its tension.

Sam twisted, one foot on the floor half lifting him, one hand straying to his balls as he curled around himself, then he snapped back again and stroked up his side, shivering. His hips were in constant motion now and he breathed in low frantic grunts.

Had it ever occurred to Frodo to consider that his gardener masturbated, he would have turned aside from the thought at once in distaste. It was an inappropriate, unsettling idea, unpleasant, as when the very old forget to control themselves, or when a cat in heat tries to press itself against your leg. Sam was just a boy, too young for such behavior, surely, he would have thought. But it was abundantly clear that Sam had left boyhood far behind.

Was this the Sam who Frodo had once entertained with long rambling stories of his own invention, killing off characters at a whim, just to see Sam cry over them? Sweet Sam, gentle Sam, tenderhearted Sam? This randy creature grappling so ferociously with its own pleasure?

The expression on Sam's face was like pain, needy and greedy and hurting, and now he had gone as tight as he could, and his hips bucked savagely and he clenched his mouth shut on a keening cry. Frodo watched splatters strike Sam's belly and the floor beside him, and when he looked again at Sam's face again, he could not look away.

Sam was smiling, beatific and lovely beyond words. He looked as if he was holding bliss in his mouth, rolling it over his tongue, savoring the taste. He quivered now and again with little aftershocks, and his breathing was deep and even and slowing.

Finally he shifted a little and stretched luxuriously, and sat up, opening his eyes. Startled and embarrassed and guilty, Frodo crept away before he could be noticed.

How often, Frodo wondered, could Sam bear to do this, to wring himself so hard for one droplet of pleasure? It looked frightening, and Frodo thought that if it were ever like that for him, he would need someone there to hold him together lest he shatter and never again be whole. Did Sam have such a person, a lover? Could he knowingly show such frenzy to someone else, or would he always reign himself in?

After he had cleaned himself up, Sam returned to the grass on the north edge. He heard the green door open behind him, and turned. Mr. Frodo came out, carrying a glass of water. "Here, Sam. It looks as if you could use this."

Sam thanked him, but privately thought Mr. Frodo looked a little heatsick himself, flushed in the cheeks and a mite shaky in the hands.

All characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate and no infringement of their copyright is intended.