Hi everyone. Sorry that it's been such an awfully long time since I've been here on LJ. I think I have forgotten how to post, so please bear with me if I make mistakes. :-)
Here is Part A of Chapter Three of The Erotic Adventures of Master Frodo Baggins, Esquire, for your pleasure and enjoyment (I hope).
To review the story up till now: Frodo has met the person he feels is the love of his life - Nigella, the new barmaid at The Green Dragon Inn. He had a rather frustrating time during a chance meeting in the forest in Chapter One, and had his frustrations relieved out amongst the rubbish bins at the back of the pub in Chapter Two.
We now continue with what happened the morning after.....I hope you will enjoy it.
PS: There is a special picture manip that I am dedicating to Mechtild. I don't think you are reading this fiction, Mechtild, but please go and have a look at the picture. I think you'll know which one it is. :-)
PPS: There is another manip dedicated to those of you who are devotees of The One Nipple.
WARNINGS: Mild sex scene with interruptions; screaming; implied violence (nothing to do with Frodo).
Chapter Three, Part A. "Mysterious Ways, in which there are many mood swings and unanswered questions."
Frodo awoke to the sounds of birds singing joyously as they greeted the dawn. So euphoric was his mood, he had an urge to join their chorus. It was a marked change from the past several mornings when he’d angrily thrown small household items at them from his bedchamber window. Hobbits were well known for their skills in aiming and throwing hard objects, and his projectiles had caused many a young fledgling to be suddenly deprived of a parent. He felt a pang of guilt and vowed to buy a few pounds of birdseed to make up for his heartless actions.
He stretched luxuriously and reached for an intricately carved wooden box on his bedside table. Unfastening the decorative metal clasp, he raised the lid to peer at the jumbled treasures within: several much handled and dog-eared birthday cards from his parents; a white handkerchief; his first pipe – a sixteenth birthday gift from Bilbo; a small toy pony fashioned from cherry wood by his father; and a miniature painting of his family, rendered by one of the more artistic members of the Brandybuck clan.
Frodo’s gaze lingered over this for a few minutes. The infant Frodo dabbled in a stone water butt while his parents stood behind him, lost in their own private world. An idyllic happy world, he always thought; what a shame that it had to end so soon – for all of us.
Twenty years had come and gone since the accident, yet in some ways it felt as if it had happened only yesterday.
He touched his mother’s face and then his father’s, and noticed how his own resemblance to his father had grown stronger as time passed. He put the picture back in the box and unfolded the white cotton handkerchief. It contained a lock of his mother’s hair given to him after the funeral by one of his relatives; he couldn’t remember whom: the person who’d attended to his parents after they’d been pulled from the river and brought home, he supposed.
He could hardly bear to look at it – not this morning at any rate! He quickly wrapped it up again and looked at his latest acquisitions to regain his high spirits. The piece of fishbone from last night nestled cosily upon Nigella’s underwear. He fondled the silky fabric of the knickers and arranged them into a pleasing composition.
When shall I see her again? he wondered excitedly. Tonight most likely! He smiled, feeling his elation return.
There was a knock at his door. He quickly closed the lid of the box and replaced it on the table. ‘Come in,’ he said cheerfully.
Bilbo stuck his grizzled old head round the door. ‘Good morning lad. You seem happy!’ he remarked. ‘I heard you singing late last night. Any reason for that?’ He had an unattractively arch expression on his wrinkled face.
‘Oh, no reason,’ Frodo said airily. None that I’d tell you about anyway, he thought. Does he know something? Maybe he’d been watching – the old rascal! (Bilbo had never grown out of the habit, and even at the age of one hundred and ten, had a regular night on which he practised voyeurism.)
‘Bilbo, where did you and Gandalf go last night? Were you near The Green Dragon by any chance?’
‘No lad. We were over at Bywater. A small get-together with a few others for a game of cards. I won quite a bit of money – mostly because I cheated, of course. We didn’t get home until after three o’clock. Why do you ask? Did we disturb you? No, that’s right, I heard you singing when we got inside. And now I’m back to my original question: what are you so happy about? It’s a lass, I’m guessing, because there’s a rather nice one here, and she seems quite anxious to see you,’ he said, pushing the door fully open.
Standing behind Bilbo was Nigella. She held a book in her hands. ‘In you go my dear. I’ll leave you two young ones alone and get about my business.’ Bilbo stepped aside to let her pass and closed the door behind her.
Nigella turned to Frodo, who looked pleased and expectantly hopeful – like a small boy on his birthday. His eyes were like blue beams of moonlight and his cheeks were still flushed from sleep. He tucked a couple of tousled locks of hair behind his ears in the manner she found so appealing.
‘I think this is yours,’ she said, holding out the book. ‘I found it in the forest last week. I kept it at the inn for you but you didn’t come, and, well, I forgot about it completely last night…for some reason.’
Frodo smiled shyly, and Nigella resisted the urge to run to his bed and jump under the covers with him.
‘I’m sorry I’m visiting so early, but it is the only time I can come today.’
‘Oh? Why is that?’ asked Frodo, staring at her inquisitively.
‘I do not think that it is any of your business!’ she said sharply. She regretted her tone as soon as she saw his crestfallen face. She sat down on his bed and put the book on the table. ‘Frodo, my love, it’s best that you do not ask questions of me,’ she said more gently.
‘I won’t, if that is your wish.’ Frodo was baffled by her reluctance to answer his simple question; nevertheless, his heart sang because she had said “my love.”
‘That’s a pretty box.’ Nigella reached for the little treasure chest and opened it before Frodo could stop her. She smiled when she saw her best underpants folded inside. She didn’t know what to make of the fishbone, and glanced inquiringly at Frodo, but he had averted his eyes in embarrassment.
Nigella picked up the family portrait and looked at it closely. ‘Are these your parents?’ she asked.
‘You’re the image of your father, you know.’
‘So I see.’
‘And I suppose the baby is you?’
‘It’s a lovely painting. You should put it out on display.’
‘Yes, maybe I will – one day.’
‘Oh, what’s this?’ She unfolded the handkerchief and studied the lock of hair. She smiled indulgently. ‘How sweet. Whose is it? Does it belong to your first love?’
‘Well, I certainly hope that’s she’s out of the picture now!’
‘I suppose you could say that,’ said Frodo quietly.
Nigella noticed the closed look on his face and did not press him further. ‘You can keep my underthings, and I’ll give you something else if you have a knife.’
Frodo opened his table drawer and got out a pen-knife. Nigella took the knife and cut off a dark golden ringlet from the nape of her neck. She tied it with a loose thread pulled from her petticoat and placed it on top of the pile of mementoes, then she picked up the fishbone and flicked it away.
Frodo didn’t say anything but he’d noted its position on the floor so that he could retrieve it later. He touched the lock of hair and smiled his thanks. ‘May I kiss you?’ he asked.
‘Of course you may,’ said Nigella, leaning close to receive it. She ran her hands through his tangled hair and over the thin cotton material of his nightshirt, feeling the muscles in his arms held tensely underneath.
‘Wait. I have something for you too,’ he said. He was anxious to give her his gift: a poem he’d written after he had floated home last night. He’d not been able to sleep for happiness and had spent three hours writing and rewriting the verses.
He handed her the piece of paper. She unfolded it and spent several minutes reading, pausing once to ask Frodo to stop stroking her leg because it was too distracting. She smiled at him poignantly, for the poem was really quite bad, but she was touched by his gesture.
‘Thank you, it’s beautiful. No-one has ever written a poem especially for me before now.’ She folded the paper carefully and placed in a pocket of her skirt. Frodo could see tears in her eyes. She turned away as if to hide them from him, and he felt that she was not just crying over the beauty of his poetry, but for something in her life that was truly sad. He didn’t know what he should do so he patted her hand, but it only caused her sobbing to increase. He rubbed her arm gently. The action pushed her long sleeve upwards, and she hastily pulled away from him and tugged the sleeve back down, but not before Frodo had glimpsed a large bruise on her forearm.
‘Oh, did I do that last night? I am sorry if I was too rough.’
‘No, it wasn’t you. I had an accident at The Green Dragon, that’s all.’
He moved the sleeve again; there were more bruises on the pale inner flesh of her arm. He could see that several were old and brown and some were more recent. ‘Show me your other arm.’ It was in much the same state. Frodo looked at her; his expression of loving concern set off a fresh bout of sobbing. ‘Can you not tell me how this happened?’ he asked.
‘I already have. It was just an accident.’
Frodo did not believe it but said nothing more, and he realised, not for the first time, that he knew little about her. He lifted one side of his quilt and pulled her in close to him. He cupped her face in his hands and wiped her tears away with his fingers.
Her eyes appeared more golden now and Frodo was again reminded of the half-wild companion of his childhood – although he’d never seen the fox look lost and vulnerable. He wished he could help her in some way but did not know how, so he just wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly.
Nigella smiled at him gratefully; her sadness seemed to have left her as quickly as it had come, and she laid her head upon his chest and played idly with his fingers. Frodo tried hard to remain unaroused.
Nigella soon noticed his failure to do so and slipped her hand under his nightshirt. To her delight she discovered that he was naked underneath and she began to play, not so idly, between his thighs.
She tugged at his nightshirt and Frodo raised his arms so that she could pull it over his head. He threw the garment into a corner of his room, and Nigella quickly removed her own clothing and knelt above him. He leaned forward to kiss her lips and neck, and then his mouth roamed to her breasts – both of them, for he never liked to do things by halves.
They joined together, and soon after, the rhythmic but violent creaking and banging of Frodo’s bed could be heard and felt throughout Bag End.
(Gandalf, sipping tea in the next room, raised his eyebrows in alarm as a small sugar canister fell off the shelf behind him.)
Nigella looked down into Frodo’s wild blue unseeing eyes. He screwed them shut as he came to a ligament-wrenching climax, and then she made him keep going until she, very noisily, reached hers. She screamed so loudly that Frodo’s eyes flew open in fright.
(Next door, Gandalf, listening with a glass pressed against the wall, spilled his hot cup of tea all down his front. Mopping his sodden robes, he wondered whether to pour another cup or retire quietly to the library with a selection from Bilbo’s pornography collection. As it was so early in the morning, he decided on the former as the more sensible option.)
‘Why do you do that?’ asked Frodo when he’d caught his breath. His heart was pounding, and not just as a result of his previous exertions.
‘I have no idea; it’s involuntary. I come from a long line of screamers: my mother, my grandmother, her father, and his mother before him. None of them knew why they did it either. Does it bother you?’
‘Not at all,’ Frodo lied politely, and resolved to get used to it. Might as well start getting used to it as soon as I can, he thought, as he ran his hands down her damp back and pulled her onto him more firmly. Her warm breath tickled his chest and he kissed the top of her head fondly. He was about to kiss her lips when he noticed a movement at his open window. Bloody Bilbo!
Bilbo peered in with a worried expression. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
‘Doesn’t look like nothing to me.’
‘How long have you been there?’ Frodo demanded, dragging the quilt over Nigella’s naked bottom.
‘I only just got here. I heard all the noise and thought someone was being murdered! If you’re planning to do this regularly, my boy, you’d better ask your girlfriend to cut down on the racket.’
‘Mind your own business!’ Frodo threw a book at Bilbo but missed for the old hobbit ducked. He was surprisingly agile for his age.
Bilbo popped up again and said, inscrutably, ‘Well, there are things to be done.’ He sauntered off with his hands in his pockets.
Nigella had remained lying on top of Frodo; the bedcover was over her head and she seemed to be shaking uncontrollably. Frodo’s heart sank. He hugged her and said, ‘Please don’t cry. I’m sorry that my cousin has upset you. He’s not been himself lately. I really don’t know what I am going to do about him.’
She flipped the bedcover back from her head. To Frodo’s relief, he saw that she had actually been laughing, and although he was still annoyed with Bilbo, he was pleased to see that Nigella had found it all so amusing.
Still laughing, she rolled off him and climbed out of the bed. She threw on her petticoat and skirt, and reached over to lift the blanket. She groped around Frodo’s body, and his hopes were raised that she might be ready for another session, but she told him she was searching for her knickers. She discovered them beneath his left buttock, and Frodo snatched them from her playfully and, in mock triumph, held the knickers aloft like a small silken flag. She laughed at his silliness and took them from him, and after folding them neatly, opened his carved box and placed them inside with his other treasures.
Frodo thanked her then observed, ‘You seem to be making a habit of leaving without your underwear.'
‘Only since I met you, Master Baggins.’
‘Aren’t you afraid that someone will see you?’
‘Well, my skirt is long so unless the wind’s blowing strongly, no-one will see. And now my love, I really must leave. Will you come to the inn tonight?
‘Yes, of course. Do you think we’ll be able to go out the back again?’ Frodo pulled her down to him for a last kiss and his hands strayed underneath her skirt to squeeze her bare bottom. She squealed and slapped his hands away then left him.
Frodo heard the front door open and close. Nigella had not answered his question but he didn’t care for she had called him “my love” again.
Nigella quickly descended the steep lane. A warm wind blew strongly and she had to hold down her skirt with both hands. She felt confused by her emotions: her love for Frodo filled her with joy, but she could never tell him, and the sadness of that overwhelmed her.
She saw the sun’s position in the sky and wondered if she’d get home in time. She let go of her skirt and ran.
Old Mr Proudfoot, leaning on his yard broom, dropped his jaw in surprise when he caught a gratifying flash of her porcelain-white backside as she dashed past.