Some time ago, Mirabella (www.houseofhobbits.com) requested a pole-dancing Frodo.
A humble solicitation.
We felt certain that many would rise to the occasion, granting this little request of someone who has filled our hours with wit, pleasure, irony and deliciously erotic fiction.
Alas, none has appeared. (Please see FOOTNOTE!)
Now, let it not be said that the followers of the great Severus Snape, Sex God of Harrypotterland, do not appreciate the attractions of other Sex Gods. We do. It is only that our creative ability may not be up to snuff with those who truly worship at this particular shrine.
With the encouragement and beta of Westmoon, who *is* a dedicated Frodo lover, and who went over and above the call of duty to act as consultant and technical advisor, going so far as to unselfishly watch FLIPPER innumerable times – for purposes of veracity only, of course, ignoring the hurtful comments of her daughter who is, alas, a Viggo fan – we present this humble offering to the Marvelous Mira.
If it brings one smile to her lips, a sigh of appreciation, even the bubble of a
giggle, we will consider ourselves blessed and amply rewarded.
Josan and Westmoon
FOOTNOTE: After writing this forward, we were informed that another such
themed epic has indeed been composed. But, to quote Mira, "in my opinion,
the world needs all the pole-dancing Frodo it can get."
To which we can but concur.
The room is dark.
Those in it are hushed, anticipating the moment.
There is some rustling as if people are restless, out of fear that the moment will never arrive.
The click resounds loudly in the silence.
Lungs inhale yet do not exhale as a spotlight has suddenly focused its brilliance on the only item at centre stage.
A pole.
From somewhere there is the sound of music. The soft, haunting strains of Ravel's Bolero fill the room, not quite drowning out the sound of breaths being allowed out, of here and there a stifled giggle. There is even one rather loud "Shhhh!", hissed disdainfully.
A crouched shadow to the side of the light moves and, once more, the sound of breathing ceases.
The shadow steps into the ring of light and on the upward beat, straightens and allows the cape to slide slowly down, puddling and covering feet, revealing...
Gasps and ahhhs.
The man – for it is definitely a male we are watching – is slim, not particularly tall. His head of earth-brown curls is tipped backwards, revealing a long line of throat, the hint of an Adam's apple. The eyes are closed, denying the Watchers their sparkle and glitter. The lips...
What can one say of those rosy red lips? Kissable? How trite! Lickable? How crass! Sensuous? Delectable? Divine? Yes, all of those and more. The dream of everyone in the room is to know what those lips feel like as they explore the Watcher's skin, as they taste...
But enough. This is not the time for dreaming; this is the time for watching.
The man is dressed in brown, wide-bottomed pants – Excuse me, trousers. One must not forget this is a British universe, not an American one! – wide- bottomed trousers housing the man's straight, short – though proportioned – slender legs.
Moving up, the upper part of his body is covered in a cream, loose-woven pirate-cut shirt, with a deep, tantalizing V in the front. Buttoned, only offering a hint...at the moment....of ivoried porcelain skin.
The man turns, his hands rise slowly above his head to clasp the pole and the Watchers gasp softly, seeing the action pulls back the head all the more, sighing sadly as it also hides the throat, that little V of chest.
The man begins to sway slowly, as though absorbing the music. He leans his body forward and rubs himself against the pole in rhythm to the haunting melody. He raises a knee and reveals, not shod feet, not booted feet, but feet of a hirsute nature.
"FRODO! I *love* you!" screams one already overcome Watcher. The crowd, those closest, glare at the speaker, as though the words have broken a sacrosanct moment. No one protests as she is unadulteratedly dragged out of the room.
There is a time and place for everything and this is not as yet the moment of vocal adoration.
As the music builds, Frodo – for it is indeed he – eyes still closed, the light casting elongated shadows upon his cheek from ridiculously long eyelashes, turns slowly, still holding onto the pole, face outward, his hips jutting slightly as they move in time to the beat.
The Watchers sigh.
Unhurriedly, Frodo allows himself to glide down the pole, his knees spreading apart so that the bulge at his groin, in spite of the material covering it, demands to be noticed.
Not that any in the room wish to avoid noticing it. In fact, there is some craning of necks, some hissed, "Get down!"
Frodo releases the pole and brings his hands down to his knees, forcing his back against the pole, using it for leverage as his strong thighs push him gradually, inch by inch, into an upright position. As they do so, his hands...move...languidly...enticingly. They smooth their way up his thighs, around his hips, pausing there as though to find the energy to continue on their journey, fingers framing a groin that has louder sighs filling the room. His hips begin to rotate, in tiny circles and then slightly larger ones as his hands deliberately track across the waistband of his trousers, meeting then crossing over on their trek to the other hip.
As Frodo's gyrations continue, he takes up once again his journey, inching his way up the pole, his hands similarly skimming his ribs until, at chest height, they cross the wider path, hovering just the faintest moment over the locale of his nipples, his fingers teasing, taunting the audience with a small circular motion before continuing to their place of rest, his shoulders.
A buzzing hum fills the room.
Which grows a little louder, a little less controlled when Frodo repeats the movements several times, each time repositioning himself around the pole so that everyone of the Watchers has had an opportunity to see and evaluate his performance.
The temperature in the room rises.
Especially when, his back to the audience, Frodo teases them with a small back and forth gesture of his hips, a raised knee that taunts them with the view of garbed, hard buttocks.
Once more his hand rises to grip the pole, and his free hand settles on the exposed throat, stroking it, up and down, in rhythm to the sounds of the Watchers. Each time dipping a little lower into that tantalizing V until his hand turns and his fingers disappear, only to flick back into view as the top button – the top of three! – is popped open, revealing more of that delicious skin.
Ahhhhs.
As though not aware of the Watchers and their reactions, Frodo turns yet a little and allows the hand to rise once more, fingertips stroking the arched throat before making their way down, down, past the first open button, down to the second where, as breaths are held almost beyond bearing, the second button is finally, placatingly popped.
Gasps vie with pained whimpers.
Frodo turns to grasp the pole with both hands, not only denying the Watchers the possibility of more of that perfect, lovely flesh, but of the mere sight of it.
Moans. A loud, pained "No!" Sniffs of agreement.
As though to make up for this disappointment, the delectable arse wriggles. Just a little. Just enough to compensate.
The Watchers are appeased. For the moment.
As Frodo completes his turn around the pole, he turns sharply and his shoulders thrust back, allowing the nearly opened shirt to slip, to enlarge the V, to draw all eyes to the lower apex where his free hand, stroking that newly revealed portion of ivory, dawdles, plays with the final button, teases, *torments*, ignores the louder whimpers until, with a flick of an agile wrist, the last button is undone.
As are the Watchers.
There are more sounds of restrained sobs and snuffles in amongst the small whimpers and moans.
As if in sympathy with the Watchers, Frodo wriggles the shirt off one shoulder, allowing it to reveal an enchanting pale pink nipple that peeks out from the edge of material, in then out again, as the motions of that shoulder slowly glide the fabric down.
A strangled squeal from the closest side of the room. A "What?" from the furthest.
In response to that query, Frodo does another turn of the pole, face still raised, eyes still closed, as though lost in his own world, not the slightest bit aware of the murmurings around him.
He exchanges one hand for the other on the pole, leaving behind an empty sleeve to dangle uselessly. Leisurely, he allows the still clothed shoulder to divest itself of its apparel, revealing a mate to the first nipple, a mate well deserving to partner that first in its own perfection.
The chest on which they lie is no less perfect. Slightly sculpted with a physique that is trim, pecs gently mounded so that the small hard tits ride their buttes with pride. The rib cage structured with a hint of horizontal lines, bisected with long, hard, raised muscle demands its own attention.
And has to fight the tight, smooth stomach to get it.
Apart from the pink perfection of the nipples, nothing detracts from the moulded beauty of the alabaster chest. Not a hair, not a scar (Is this before our Sex God has taken off on his adventures? Or is Our Divinity a proponent of cosmetic surgery?), not a wrinkle – except for the small, round navel that hovers above the bunched material, crying out to be revealed in all its glory.
Frodo ignores the quiet cries, the reverent "Oh, my, so beautiful!", the muffled sniffles, to follow the haunting strains of the Bolero twice more around the pole; the first facing out, the second displaying his back for the approval of the Watchers.
From behind, the slender shoulders, the muscles tight over shoulder blades, the long line of a dimpled spine leading the eye to a narrow waist, all these come in for their fair share of awe and worship.
Once more facing the Watchers, Frodo – whose eyes have never once yet indicated that they have the facility to open – snaps the shirt out of his trousers, allows it to drop to the floor, then kicks it forward with a graceful jetté that forces him to rise onto tiptoe.
There is a scramble for the shirt, the sounds of frantic tones, then those of rips competing with sobs of loss and gloating expressions of victory. Those too far away sigh in disappointment, but their attention immediately returns to the pole.
Frodo has released it, only to hook a knee around the pole, leaning back, his upper body arching, his hands and arms dropping to the side as though reaching for the floor, a goal the hands soon attain. As though missing their presence, the head follows them, dusting the polished surface of the floor with its curls as incredibly, gradually, they create a circle of their own within the light when, displaying great muscular control, Frodo once more makes a turn around the pole, all the while maintaining this position.
When he has come full circle, the muscles of his stomach tense and bunch, pulling him upright to an oh-so-deserved standing ovation and cries of "Bravo!"
It is as though the Watchers have been released from some spell of silence. From now on, their delight, their approval, their awe will be vocal though ignored by the one person from whom they want recognition. For him, it is as though they do not exist.
But he must know they are there, watching him, for what other reason would he have to rest his back against the pole, his hands splayed upon his body, caressing, skimming, stroking if not to drive them to frenzy? He plays with his nipples, pinching them, encircling them, going so far as to lick the tips of his fingers with his long, pink tongue, using the warm wetness to soothe them. He dips a finger into that navel, which pushes against the tormenting intruder, as though to send it on its way. It is a game they play, that finger and the navel, until Frodo seems to tire of it. Hand resting on waistband, he allows the finger to play that self-same game with the top button of the fly on his trousers.
Muffled shrieks of anticipation.
The finger pops open the first button.
Unmuffled shrieks. An atmosphere of hunger prevails.
The finger dips lower and pops open the second button.
Tension rises though, amazingly, sounds diminish.
The finger moves up and down, provoking its way from the top of the opening down to the third button then back up again, as the Bolero's obsessive refrain climbs in tone.
The third button pops open. Immediately, the fourth and last is dealt with.
Gulps and hard, dry swallows.
As though in sympathy, the pink tongue adds a glisten to that full, lower lip.
Whimpers of desire.
There is a sudden wriggling of hips and slowly, to the accompaniment of the music, the now open trousers slip, slide, glide, inch by tantalizing inch, making their way downward. Their progression is temporarily halted when Frodo juts out his hips – pained "Ohs!" of disappointment – then bucks hard with these very hips, sending the offending trousers once more on their path to the floor, there to lie, an inert brown puddle, no longer of any interest to anyone.
Screams!
"A *loincloth*!"
"He's wearing a loincloth!"
And he is. A swatch of purest white, riding on hip-bones, forming a modesty cover over that all too interesting bulge.
There is disappointment as well as intrigue.
"I always wondered..."
"...or briefs. Never even thought of..."
"Loincloth."
"...wound, isn't it?"
Gracefully, Frodo raises his arms, both of his hands grasping the pole over his head, framing a face wetly gleaming in the light. He leans his weight onto one foot while the other leg bends at the knee, that foot resting against the pole itself.
"St. Sebastian!" squeals a shrill voice.
"Oh, god! Yes!" worship many others.
And Frodo honours that veneration with a slow opening of his eyes as he looks upward.
Blue eyes. Dark blue. Lustrous.
He turns his head and, toying with the Watchers, lowers his eyelashes, hiding the expression in those phenomenal eyes behind a veil of shadows.
By now, the Bolero's pitch is rising, as are the Watchers.
Frodo *is* aware of them. He looks out upon them.
Each feels he is staring into her very soul with those magnificent blue orbs, her innermost secrets revealed to his gaze.
Her desires.
Her yearnings.
All for him alone. For him to accept or reject as is his whimsey.
It is his choice to ignore them all, building on their need for him to acknowledge their openness to him.
He sways to the rhythmic beat, his body making love to the pole. He rubs himself sensuously against it, as though it were human.
As though not knowing that each Watcher has substituted herself for that so fortunate pole. The hunger in the room builds with each movement of that lithe body, as hands grasp and skim the pole, as hips oscillate, a pendulum that times their Ohs and Ahs.
But he knows that is not enough. He knows that he can push them even further, beyond the sounds that many are muffling with their hands, beyond the sound of clothing rubbing against the fabric of the seats.
He knows that he has them and can do whatever it pleases him with them.
It pleases him to send them over the edge.
He opens his mouth wide, moistens his lips, lingering on the upper one with the tip of that serpentine tongue.
Eyes, brilliant with his acknowledged power over them all, makes contact with the weeping ones among the Watchers.
The sound of frantic sobs escalates.
His body, slicked wet from all his exertions, shimmers in the light with the small motions he controls so well, as he commands the bodies jerking around him.
He lowers his head slightly, eyes still watching the Watchers, delighting, flashing as he brings his hands down to the side of the loincloth, the place where the end is tucked in.
He taunts them as he begins to unwind the length that girds his groin. His shoulders back against the pole, his hips jutting out, his knees gradually dipping, he unwraps himself by degrees.
The Watchers are no longer silent. No longer seated. They scream, they yell, they weep openly, their sobs competing with the encouragement that resounds, overwhelming the now blaring refrain.
He turns, offering them a view of perfect buttocks, divided for their perusal and adoration by a thin line of white fabric. Dimpled, strong, hard muscles flex, mandating their responses. He glances over his shoulder, accepting their veneration, before turning back to them.
Frodo is no longer the passive artiste: he is the conductor of this symphony of desire. He plays his orchestra well, bringing in one part to raise the sound of sobbing then turning his attention – and hips – onto another that fills the hall with its own refrain of "I love you, Frodo!" – a sentiment that now indeed does have its place – before bringing in yet another, "Take it off!"
And he does. But with his own impeccable sense of timing, knowing that the Watchers want foreplay – Nay, *need* foreplay! – before the climax.
But the tensions, the cries, the sobs are overpowering and those whose role it is to attend the Watchers after the fact are worried. This is too much. They may lose some this evening. Frodo does not know his own power, they mutter, their own eyes drawn to the hobbit. Their own hunger rises to join the waves of longing, the perfume of arousal filling their noses.
Frodo senses he has gone as far as he dare: a Sex God does, after all, have responsibilities.
As the Bolero crescendos into its final refrains, he pulls the last of the swatch, revealing a cock that is as hungry as are the Watchers. A bold thing, red-faced and long. Thick, nestled in a small but well tended bed of coarse, dark brown almost black hair.
His hands reach for the pert penis, stroking its erectness, his hips bucking, writhing, calling attention to the rampant length bludgeoning the crowd.
He closes his eyes, one hand catering to that demanding piece of flesh, the other slipping between his legs to cup his balls, their colour dark against the alabaster of his thighs.
He bucks harder, rotates his hips causing that first hand to stroke up and down. He throws his head back, his damp hair curling tightly against his skull from the heat...not just from the Watchers but that which he has raised in himself...his mouth open, gasping, panting, his tongue flickering like a snake's, scenting the redolence of sex...
...the room screams orgasmic!
But just before the light goes off, it shines momentarily on a golden cockring that is barely visible behind the swollen flesh.
A cockring with writing on it.
Writing that only Frodo and one other know is there.
Hobbit writing that says: Property of Mirabella.
The End