tagChain StoriesLord of the Rings: Concerning Hobbi

Lord of the Rings: Concerning Hobbi


In the days of their peace and prosperity, they were a merry folk. They dressed in bright colours, but they seldom wore shoes, since their feet had tough and leathery soles and were clad in a thick curling hair, much like the hair of their heads, which was commonly brown. Their faces were as a rule good-natured rather than beautiful, broad, bright-eyed, red-cheeked, with mouths apt to laughter, and to eating and drinking. And laugh they did, and eat, and drink, often and heartily. They were hospitable and delighted in parties, and in presents, which they gave away freely and eagerly accepted.

-- from the Prologue to the Lord of the Rings, "Concerning Hobbits".


Frodo woke refreshed in a bower formed by a willow whose branches drooped to the ground, lying on a bed of fern and grass, deep and soft and fragrant. He lay a while, regarding his naked bottom half. Thicker about the belly than he liked to see himself, but Frodo was cheered by the firmness of his morning stand. With all the forebodings of his upcoming journey, it was comforting to see his prick saluting the dawn of a beautiful morning in the Shire. Frodo blinked, half-remembering. A confused recollection of late last night with the Elves, after Sam and Pippin had gone to bed, seemed to feature his stiff stem in some way, but he no longer could recall the last chapter of the evening. It faded with the morning mist, leaving only a hint of sweet fragrance and scraps of Gildor's equivocal advice. "Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger. The choice is yours, to go or wait."

The Elves had departed before the dawn, but they had left breakfast for the travellers, and Sam had loyally defended Mr. Frodo's share of sweet bread and berries from the hungry maw of Pippin.

"You slept through first breakfast, and now it's second breakfast!" Pippin protested.

"Son of a Took!" Frodo jeered his friend. "You'd eat the tablecloth if you could!"

"I would at that," Pippin said. "But though they say you're a queer duck, tramping the hills and byways, you're looking prosperous."

Frodo rubbed his belly. "Well, there'll be more tramping today. Let us be at it! I want to be across the river before that Big One on a horse catches our scent."

"Scent is right, Mr. Frodo," Sam said. "Snuffling like a hound, he was. Warn't no manner of Big Folk like I've ever seen."

"Well if we're to be tramping, you'll want your britches!" Pippin said, nodding to Frodo's lower half.

Frodo looked down and laughed. "My head is full of cobwebs still, from sitting up with Gildor."

"What was his counsel?" Pippin asked. "Did you ask about the snuffling?"

Frodo cleared his throat. "Gildor said..." He pondered a moment. "Well, nothing really definite. You know what Bilbo used to say, 'Do not ask the Elves for counsel, for they will say both yea and nay.' And no, nothing about the snuffling."

The gathered their rucksacks and walking sticks. Frodo argued for cutting across country to the river, to save the road's long swing round the woods, while Pippin warned, "Short cuts make long delays," arguing the difficulty of the bushy hills and dales between them and the river. When Pippin further advocated the road for the sake of a stop at the Golden Perch, "the best beer in the Eastfarthing -- and the best barmaids!", Frodo retorted, "That settles it! Short cuts make long delays, but inns make longer ones." Sam took Frodo's side, and they tramped off the road and into the thickets.

Sam thought mournfully of the lost beer stop. Mr. Frodo was upon a long, dark road indeed if he scorned a trip to the Golden Perch. But then Sam thought of the snuffling Big One, and decided water would suit him fine today.

A long hot morning of struggling cross-country found them under the trees when the weather broke, with wind and blustering rain troubling them as they picked their way through the wood, uncertain of the direction of their short-cut. At midday they sheltered under an elm, where they opened their packs to find the Elves had left them another gift, filling their bottles with sweet honey-mead. With their hunger satisfied, the mead made them merry, and Frodo started an old drinking song he used to sing on his long country rambles. At length Pippin challenged them to a pissing contest. Frodo accepted, as it was long tradition when he rambled with his friends, and he chivvied the shy Sam into joining them. Pippin won, his stream arching longest from his longer stem, but Frodo consoled Sam by declaring that the young hobbit clearly carried the heaviest balls.

Frodo recalled a time when, wandering invisibly with the Ring on, he had seen Sam snuggled up with Rose Cotton in the back corner of the garden, Rose playing Sam's instrument with her deft hands. The misty vision while wearing the Ring had not done justice to Sam's fine equipment. Perhaps when this was all over, Sam would be able to plow Rose's field properly. There was hope.

A chilling cry broke Frodo from his reverie and wiped the grin of triumph off Pippin's face. It wavered up and down, floating down the wind till it ended on a high piercing note. The three fumbled their britches' buttons closed with shivering hands and made ready in haste. Before they could hoist their rucksacks, a fainter wail answered the first. They stood frozen as the second call wavered and ended in a shriek.

The travellers hastened through the last of the wood under the blustery sky, quickly finding their way to the river road. As they tramped toward the ferry dock, they scanned the distance for horses, for Big Folk, for riders in black.

"Ah, we're in luck!" Pippin declared as they approached a neat hedgerow around a turnip patch. "This is Farmer Maggot's land. Let's stop."

Frodo winced. "Perhaps we shouldn't," he said, feeling a flash of phantom pain on his rump. "His dogs."

Pippin laughed. "Perhaps you shouldn't have been stealing mushrooms, oh so long ago, for him to set them on you. No, no, I insist. His dogs will keep off those Big Ones! We will walk faster if we warm up, and perhaps old Maggot has some news. And some beer!"


Pippin's cheery insistence carried the day, and soon the three of them were seated around Farmer Maggot's kitchen table, warmed by the hearth, and enjoying a little second luncheon served by Mrs. Maggot. Farmer Maggot hadn't forgotten Frodo's youthful forays, but he had forgiven him. The only dark note in this reunion was Maggot's tale of a hooded Big Man on a black horse who had said queer and threatening things in a whisper, asked after "Baggins", spooked Maggot's dogs and galloped off in high dudgeon when Maggot had no help for him.

Frodo, Sam, and Pippin looked at one another in concern. But Maggot offered to ride them up to the ferry in a wagon after dinner so as not to look like the ramblers the Big Folk were seeking. Frodo accepted with grace. A warm afternoon indoors in the Maggots' busy household was just the thing. Pushed back from the kitchen table, warm inside and out, it was hard to credit the sinister encounters they had had. As Maggot's sons, daughters, and married-ins bustled in and out, pausing between their tasks, Frodo, Sam, and Pippin found themselves telling and retelling little snatches of the story of Bilbo's birthday party, as well as other news of Hobbiton and thereabouts. The choicest bits of the party brought giggles and blushes to the sons as well as the daughters, especially in Pippin's expansive style. At length, Pippin was pulled off toward the barn by one of the daughters to help with some task or other specially requiring his talents.

Sam drowsed by the fire, dropping off into a nap as Frodo watched the bustling household and chatted with Mrs. Maggot.

At length, Mrs. Maggot noticed that Frodo's britches had been torn during their ramble through the thickets and bustled him off to her chamber. The well-oiled hinges scarcely whispered as she closed the door behind them. "We'll fix that up rightaways while we have a little daylight," she said, receiving the sullied article.

As she set out the things from her sewing basket by the chair under her window, Mrs. Maggot asked Frodo what his plans were after he was settled back in Buckland.

"A quiet life," Frodo said. "Seeing the old home country. I've rambled through now and again, but it will be good to live here, watch the seasons turn, see the folks I grew up with."

Mrs. Maggot laughed. "For all your tricks and book learning, I never thought you had the makings of a Hobbiton boy," she said. "There you went, and now here you are back again." She smiled. "I hope to see you at Yule. We have the merriest gathering here, we do. Or sooner."

Frodo smiled and nodded his hopes toward her.

"Now stand close, Frodo," Mrs. Maggot said. "You'll help me with the knots, my eyes are not so sharp as they were, the last time I patched your britches."

Frodo flinched. The last time she had patched his britches was after Farmer Maggot's dogs had ripped the seat wide open with their teeth, not sparing the flesh underneath. The dogs had held him at bay until Farmer Maggot had called them off and marched him back to the farmhouse for a hot-tempered talking-to before handing him over to Mrs. Maggot to tend his wounds.

Frodo looked in Mrs. Maggot's eyes to see them twinkle. He felt a flush of warmth as he recalled how that day had ended.

"Ah, you do remember, young Frodo," she said. She looked his stiffening prick in its one blind eye. "Or part of you does."

Frodo swallowed, not knowing what to say. Mrs. Maggot's broad, cheerful face was much as he remembered it, a little rounder, the smile broader, the laugh lines deeper. Silver threaded her thick brown hair. The curves of her rump and belly had prospered, but she wore them well, and her breasts had burgeoned in turn, the little apples he remembered now full and round and softening downward after they had fed her brood of little Maggot boys and girls.

Mrs. Maggot followed Frodo's gaze and grinned. "Now attend, and mayhap we'll have time to make you another memory," she said. Her deft hands made quick work of the torn cloth of Frodo's britches. Frodo helped as she directed, and soon they were done.

"I'll be needed to start dinner, but will you bide a wee?" Mrs. Maggot asked.

"Yes," Frodo said.

Mrs. Maggot's warm, strong fingers reached out and cupped his balls. Though rough with work, they were wise and gentle with their touch, and their warmth encouraged Frodo's stem to stand and salute her.

"Doff your shirt," she said. "The best dress for this work is your birth-day suit."

Mrs. Maggot's apron, dress, and shift joined Frodo's clothes on her work table. Frodo admired her bare skin, touched faintly by the cool chamber air. There was much of the blushing apple, and the rich melon, and the ripe berry in her colour, her curves, and her points. The ample curves led Frodo's eyes down her belly, and to where all roads begin, in the cave under the bushy mound, guarded by a pearl-topped arch.

"Why have you not found a lass to marry?" she asked. "Surely you are not pining for me, old Lily?" She laughed, her pink cheeks glowing. "Was I your first?"

"I love to read and ramble," Frodo said. "And I like being by myself, betimes. The thing in marrying is not just your bride and who she is, but you're marrying her family as well."

Mrs. Maggot chortled. "Right enough!" she said. She cocked her head. "Or are you more partial to mushrooms than to plowing a woman's furrow?"

Before Frodo could think of a reply (the true answer on most days, ungallantly, would be 'yes'), her eyes were caught by the glitter of the chain round his neck from which depended the Ring.

"My goodness, it's gold!" she said. "Those stories they do tell. About Bilbo, and treasure."

"Don't breathe a word," Frodo said. "I don't need any third or fourth cousins sniffing about. Quiet, now that's what I've come here for."

"Cross my heart," Mrs. Maggot said. "Speak no evil. Now, Frodo, quick." She reached for him and pulled him onto the bed.

It was no mystery how Farmer Maggot and his wife held their interest in one another to beget their sons and daughters. As the former Lily Lightfoot spread her legs, her deep furrow, thickly bushed, opened of itself to reveal its damp pink folds. Frodo knelt between her ample thighs, steadied his aim and pressed forward, finding the furrow moist and open to take his plow deep inside. He sighed with pleasure. Had it been so long? Lily held the heat of the springtime earth, she clasped him with the strength of a woman whose days were work, and she moved her hips to his with the sure rhythm of a wife wise to the ways of her own satisfaction. Her skin was warm and her flesh soft and yielding as they pressed together.

The air soon tickled his nose with the scent of her rising heat, a warm scent with the earthy richness of mushroom gravy. Frodo realized he'd had a hint of it when he first saw her and a little more when he'd entered her chamber. Perhaps Farmer Maggot had plowed her furrow at midday. The thought made his heart thump with urgency and he redoubled his efforts.

"Yes, Frodo, faster!" Mrs. Maggot urged. "You darling, darling, darling boy..."

Frodo thrust faster, deeper into his host's wife. It had been so long since he could just let himself go, to plow and thrust and plant his stem so deep in any hobbit-lass or lady.

Her hips bucked and her limbs tensed, squeezing Frodo tight against her, hips belly and breast. "Oh, oh, ohhh!"

A rattle at the chamber door electrified him. His stem swelled and exploded like one of the great fire-wheels from Bilbo's party. And then somehow he was out, off, into the ghost world of the Ring and rolling into the shadows under the bed. The clammy half-world quenched the last drops of his heat and left him cold, limp, and wet between the legs, and reminded him with a whisper of fear of the riders who hunted him. Frodo eased off the ring as he lay under the bed, and colors, sounds and shapes were normal again. Normal as the broad, thick-toed pair of hobbit feet that stood at the foot of the bed.

"Lily dear!" Farmer Maggot called. He laughed, seeing her plump pink thighs wide open and the lips of her bushy furrow pouting. Farmer Maggot wiggled his toes. "Did I not plow you at morn and at noon, that you would need harrow yourself?" he protested, but his tone was pleased.

"Indeed, husband. Your good plowing rouses me for more. Would you till my furrow once more before supper? Could you?" she wheedled.

"Wife, I can, and I will!" Farmer Maggot said.

Farmer Maggot's britches were off and onto the floor with a thump, and his feet disappeared one after the other. The featherbed whispered as it took his weight.

"Ah, it is sweet to be a mushroom farmer," Maggot said.

"Ah!" Mrs. Maggot cooed as she received her husband's shaft. "And a mushroom farmer's wife," she agreed.

Frodo lay quietly as the stout farmer and his wife repeated the dance that he and Mrs. Maggot had just been doing together. When they were well engaged with the battle of love, panting and sighing as they battered their loins together, Frodo slipped on the Ring and lifted his britches and shirt lightly from Mrs. Maggot's work table. As he slipped out the door, he heard Lily's voice rising in a peak of delight, and a low growl from Farmer Maggot as his pleasure answered hers.

Frodo found a quiet corner where he could put on his clothes and join the visible world. He returned to the kitchen where Sam, wakened from his nap, was toasting his feet near the stove and watching two of the younger Maggots chopping vegetables.

"Where were you, Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked.

"Mrs. Maggot was mending my britches," he said. "Pippin warned us we would pay for our short cut."

Sam laughed. "He did, though it was the Golden Perch that missed our custom today." Sam looked rueful at the lack.

"Another time. You will not go dry this afternoon, and Merry and Fatty will have the best of Bag End's cellars waiting for us tonight," Frodo said.

Sam smiled, cheered at the thought.

After a time, Mrs. Maggot returned, shooed the visitors out of her kitchen, and presently served up the most delicious mushrooms that Frodo could remember for an early supper. The earthy savor and slippery flesh of the mushrooms recalled to Frodo other sorts of delicious pleasure, and under cover of loosening his belt, Frodo adjusted his stiffening stem. Farmer Maggot's mushrooms were quietly famous for their salutary effects in that quarter. As a young buck, it had been prize enough to make Frodo risk the ire of Farmer Maggot and his dogs. Frodo sighed. Nothing much to be done with it at present.

Pippin, in rather unhobbitlike manner, was a bit late for the meal, and his cheeks glowed with what seemed to be pride or the healthy bloom of exercise. Bits of hay clung to his clothes and hair, and a broad grin kept popping up on his face.

When dark had fallen, with fingers of mist creeping up from the river, Farmer Maggot packed his wagon and settled Frodo, Sam, and Pippin in back. A figure in a hood carrying the handle of a basket was last out to see them on their way.

"Frodo," Mrs. Maggot whispered. "For you." She handed him the basket. From under a neatly tucked cloth cover, the tell-tale scent of freshly picked mushrooms tickled Frodo's nose, and his loins.

And with that and a bark or two from Farmer Maggot's dogs, they were off to the road for the Brandywine ferry.

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