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Bind His Hands

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Frodo giggled and swayed on his feet, capturing the carved
bedpost for balance. The wine of Emyn Arnen, far more
potent than the delicate Elvish wine with which he had
grown accustomed, had gone swiftly to his head. Heavy and
fruity, Frodo had felt himself tipsy after only half a
glass, but he had gone on to consume three. After all, he
and Faramir were dining in the Prince of Ithilien’s private

“I cannot believe you actually did it for me--,” Frodo
broke into tipsy giggling. Faramir staggered in front of
him, now dressed from head to boots in the garb he had worn
as a Ranger of Ithilien – faded green cloak shading his
face, his muddy, leather tunic designed with the White
Tree, his long bow quiver over his shoulder, rope in his
leather-clad hands.

The Ranger of Ithilien’s gray eyes gleamed dangerously.
“Make haste to declare yourself and your errand, Halfling,”
he slurred. “What leave have you to travel in Ithilien,
where go only the servants of the Dark Tower or the White?”

Frodo held his hands over his mouth, nearly falling in a
new wave of dizziness. “I cannot believe—“

Faramir kept his voice stern. “Speak!”

Frodo flinched, and a delicious shiver trickled up his
arms. “My errand is hidden, and I am commanded not to speak
of it with anyone, save with whom I was bound to travel.”

“Then I shall be forced to bind your hands.”

Frodo gasped, but his groin warmed as Faramir roughly
pulled his arms in front and tied them with the piece of
rope he had held.

“Consider yourself lucky,” Faramir said grimly, lifting
Frodo and flinging him gently onto the silk coverlet. “For
I am commanded to slay all whom I find in this land without
the leave of the Lord of Gondor.”

Frodo giggled again, gasping weakly in anticipation. Still
keeping his face masked, Faramir forced Frodo’s arms above
his head as he straddled the hobbit. “I shall ask again.
What leave have you to wander the woods of Ithilien?”

“I cannot say,” Frodo said, closing his eyes demurely.

“Ah…that could be so.” Faramir’s voice was hoarse. “But
perhaps the answer lies on your person.”

“Will you be forced to search me, Captain?” If only
Faramir would touch him. He could not bear the waiting, and
his breath came out in quick gasps.

“A simple kiss will buy your life, Halfling. Will you

“Yes,” Frodo gasped, and his lips parted. Heat covered his
mouth, sending his heart into rapid fluttering. His nipples
tingled with longing for those harsh lips to cover them
with kisses.

“Is there more you would have from me?” Frodo said, raising
his eyebrows. “I should very much like it if you would let
me go, Captain.”

“What else can you spare?”

“Unbutton my shirt,” Frodo said, panting. “You may have all
there is to see.” Rough fingers fumbled with his shirt
buttons. A hard mouth devoured his nipples, drinking in
pale silky skin. Faramir looked up.

“It is not enough, Halfling. Your freedom must come at a
much higher price than that.”

“Unbind my hands and I will show you,” Frodo said.

“You will not try to escape?”

“I should be a fool to do so.”

As soon as Frodo was free, he moved swiftly, capturing the
Captain’s wrists with the rope and pulling them together,
tying before the Man had time to resist. Faramir yielded
to Frodo’s weight flung against him, and he collapsed on
his back.

“Now who is captured?” Frodo asked, raising delicate brows.
His shirt was mostly unbuttoned and hung open at what he
knew was a delectable angle, showing a tantalizing view of
rosy nipples.

“If my men come back, they will slay you,” Faramir
murmured. “Taking a Captain of Rangers captive is a grave
offense against Gondor.”

“Then let us move fast.” After ripping the mask from
Faramir’s face, Frodo undid the lacings to Faramir’s tunic
with nimble fingers.

“Something hard is poking into my abdomen,” Faramir said,
hiding a smile. “Could you at least have the mercy to
cease this cruelty?”

Frodo held Faramir’s gaze and pressed his hips against the
Man’s, grinding deliberately. An answering hardness swelled
against him through the Man’s leggings.

“Frodo,” Faramir said, his breaths uneven. “Please…Untie

“In a moment,” the hobbit said. He undid his braces and
let them fall to the side of the bed. He finished
unbuttoning his shirt and slipped it off. He pulled down
his breeches so that his hardness was fully revealed.
Finally, he tugged Faramir’s leggings down.

“There is something you can do to buy your freedom,” Frodo
said hoarsely, placing himself just so, so that his bare
bottom barely brushed Faramir’s large stiffness.

“Untie me,” Faramir gasped, his bound wrists stretching
toward Frodo in a helpless attempt to clasp Frodo’s hips.
When Frodo ignored him, he lashed out and tickled Frodo’s
tender stomach. Frodo laughed and pulled away, nearly
falling on his backside.

“Faramir, no!”

“Untie me!” Faramir tickled Frodo’s belly again.

“All right…all right!”

Frodo pulled at the rope until it came undone, setting
Faramir’s wrists free.

“One more thing…” Frodo said, pulling back from Faramir’s
grasp. “You must have me completely or I shall tie you up
again. Are you willing?”

“I do not have…there is nothing to ease the way…”

Frodo climbed off of Faramir and the bed, and he was so
dizzy he could barely make his way to the table where he
knew there still existed patches of butter. When he
returned to the bed and straddled Faramir again, he greased
his hands before running his hands gracefully over
Faramir’s length.

“You must hurry,” Faramir said. “You will be the death of


They rocked in rhythm. For Frodo, the dizziness caused by
the wine only intensified the feeling that he had long lost
control of the game. He imagined that he was in fact back
in the wilderness of Ithilien bargaining with the Captain
for his life and freedom. He was being split in two, but
the Captain needed it…needed *him*, a simple hobbit from
the Shire. Each thrust sent an ever-increasing shudder of
pleasure through him. He was not on the Prince of
Ithilien’s satin coverlet, but on the filthy ground of
Ithilien. At any moment they could be discovered by orcs…by
Southron soldiers…by Faramir’s Men. But the Captain’s face
was twisted with lust and need, and he clutched Frodo’s
hips so hard there would be bruises later. Their thrusts
grew more frantic, ever quickening, until at last, they
both, sweat glistening on their brows, yelled incoherently
at the ceiling.


“Must you return to the Shire?” Faramir asked, much later
in the night, holding the hobbit close.

“Hmmm…” Frodo was afraid to move. While his body still
tingled from lovemaking, his head had begun to throb. He
would be fortunate if he did not need to vomit before the
night ended. He managed a weak smile. “Not for awhile.”

“Good,” Faramir said, holding him closer.

“Tomorrow…” Frodo murmured. “If I am not ill from the
wine…we should use the dungeons down below.”

He shifted, snuggling closer to Faramir, feeling the Man’s
new arousal at the idea of more games the following night.