(no subject)

[bbollinger.livejournal.com]

Title: Untitled: I'm Too Tired to Think of a Title
Author: Bollinger (bbollinger)
Pairing: S/F
Rating: PG13-ish
Summary: Frodo's cross-dressing adventures exposed. 
Author's Note: Written for Aina, who basically wanted a pre-quest, Sam/Frodo, first-time story. And I totally delivered! I hope. Sorry for the delay, by the way. I was somewhat swamped with what the locals call "real life" issues. Oh, also, Radaker wants the world to know that he helped with this story.

"Sam?” Frodo asked pathetically.

 

“Yes, Mr. Frodo?” the gardener answered.

 

“Is this going to hurt?” Frodo looked a little scared.

 

“Not if you relax.”

 

“Ok. I’m relaxed. Go ahead, Sam.”

 

“All right, here I go…” Sam swiftly lifted the cloth and wax off of Frodo’s leg. Little hairs were caught in the wax.

 

“Ow!” Frodo yelped. “I didn’t know waxing my legs would be so painful.”

 

“Well, we’ve still got another leg to go.”

 

“I don’t think I can do it, Sam.”

 

“You must, Mr. Frodo. You’ll look quite rightly silly with one leg hairy and the other bald.”

 

“I guess you’re right. All right, start.”

 

Sam took the pot of wax off of the fire and painted it onto Frodo’s other leg with a paintbrush. He took a linen rag out of the basket next to him and lay it on top, smoothing it with his fingers. “Are you ready, Frodo?”

 

“Ready as I’ll ever be, Samwise.”

 

Riiiiiiiiip!

 

“GAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” Frodo let out a blood-curdling scream. “Why does this have to be so painful?” he asked, teary-eyed.

 

“Well, you know what me mother always said: Beauty is painful.”

 

“No, Sam. Love is painful. Beauty should come effortlessly to gorgeous babes like me.”

 

“That’s true,” Sam acknowledged. “Still, it’s going to take a lot of waxing if you’re going to fool Minto Pillows into thinking you’re a lass. And waxing is painful, as me mother always said.”

 

“Okay, okay.” Frodo was sick of hearing about what Sam’s dead mother thought about who’s-it and what’s-it and that hobbit who always wore a shirt. “Just keep waxing.”

 

~

 

An hour later, Frodo’s legs were completely hairless. It had been dreadfully horrific, this waxing business, but he was really enjoying the smooth feeling of his legs. Brushing one of his hairy feet against his other calf felt sinfully indulgent, like a milk bath, or sticky toffee pudding with custard and a cup of warm brandy.

 

“Well?” Sam asked, wringing out the hairy, bloody, waxy rags. “What do ye think?”

 

“Oh, Sam!” Frodo cried. “I’ve never felt more beautiful.”

 

“You’ve never looked more beautiful, Frodo. Now let’s get you in your dress. I’ll get the petticoats!”

 

“Oh! I love all of the lace. It’s so soft, and feminine.” Frodo said as he slipped on his petticoats.

 

Sam lifted a purple satin dress over Frodo’s head. “Now, lift up your arms, sir. I mean, ma’am.”

 

“This is so exciting!”

 

~

 

Frodo crept into the Green Dragon, hoping that no one had recognized him. He was sure that nobody had — except, of course, for the Gaffer, who passed him on the way over with a cheerful tip of his hat and “evening, Mr. Frodo.” And the doorman at the Dragon, who had also said hello and called him “Mr. Baggins.”

 

“That’s Miss, uh … Bracegirdle,” Frodo had corrected him.

 

Frodo sat down at the bar. Sam had used one of his sister’s corsets, and they’d tried to push his bosom up as much as possible, but he was a boyish little slip of a thing and he just didn’t have any shapely curves.

 

The bartender stepped up. “Hullo, Mr. Frodo.”

 

“Shh, Brett! Don’t call me Frodo tonight! I’m trying to convince Minto Pillows that I’m a lass by the name of Bracegirdle.”

 

“What’s the point of that?”

 

“Oh, that dreadful Lotho Sackville-What’s-his-Face—”

 

“Baggins.”

 

“Yeah, him. He bet me I couldn’t fool Minto Pillows into thinking I was a lass.”

 

“O-kay,” the bartender said incredulously. “What’s your first name, Miss Bracegirdle?”

 

Frodo thought for a moment, and cursed. “Dammit! Oh, just call me ‘Froda.’ ”

 

“Oh, yeah, that’s real clever-like,” Bartender Brett sassed. “Minto, he’ll never figure it out.”

 

“Thank you,” Frodo said smugly. Then, he put on an alluring falsetto: “Now, you get me an ale, and send one to Minto Pillows, courtesy of, um, whoever I am.”

 

“Coming right up, Miss Bracegirdle.”

 

~

 

Frodo sidled up to Minto Pillows, who was sitting at his usual table at the back of the bar. “So, Minto,” he asked in his sultry falsetto. “Are you enjoying your ale?”

 

“Uh, which?” Minto took another swig from his mug and slammed it down on the table, wiping his mouth. “I’ve had about five tonight.”

 

“That’s a lot of ale,” Froda screeched.

 

“Yeah, well, I can put ‘em away pretty quick.”

 

“I’ve got a proposition for you.” Frodo sat on a surprised Minto’s lap, trying to be seductive and sultry. “I’ll let you put me away, if you take my meaning.”

 

“Why would I want to sleep with you?” Minto asked, almost laughing from the absurdity of the thought.

 

“You wouldn’t want to sleep with a buxom lass like me?”

 

“You’re not a lass,” Minto said, totally deadpan. “You’re just Frodo Baggins wearing a dress.” He chuckled his most drunken chuckle. “And you’re not even close to buxom.”

 

“Well,” Frodo said in his usual register. “If you don’t think I’m buxom, I don’t want to sleep with you!”

 

“I didn’t want to sleep with you anyhow, Frodo. I can see your cock under your dress! You should really wear a few more slips next time.”

 

Frodo was so distraught he ran back to Bag End.

 

~

 

Frodo slammed the door behind him as he got back home, totally upset that his ingenious plan to seduce Minto Pillows had failed with a sordid death wail. Tears has been streaming down his face as he ran home, past gawking hobbits and straight up the hill. Despite the dress he was wearing, had he hopped over the fence — no time to unlatch the gate.

 

Frodo wept miserably for a time before a soft knock came at the door. Frodo was in no mood for visitors, but if he had learned anything from old Bilbo (and he had picked up a thing or two along the way, of course), it was that a good hobbit never turned away a visitor. So he lifted his skirts, gathered his dignity (what was left of it, anyhow) and cautiously opened the door.

 

“Mr. Frodo!” Sam cried, prying the door open and knocking back over so that his skirt flew over his head. Sam gasped and hoisted Frodo up onto his feet. “I sure didn’t mean to knock you over, sir. I mean, ma’am.” Sam blushed.

 

“ ‘Sir’ will do fine, Sam,” Frodo sighed. “I’m sorry to say that Minto was not convinced by my act at all.”

 

“But you look so wonderful!” Sam cried. “Truly convincing.”

 

“Oh, Sam,” Frodo sighed, shutting the door. “I don’t know what I was thinking, taking Lotho up on his bet. I just want to crawl into bed and die.”

 

“Don’t say that, sir! If you died, I don’t know what I’d do, I’d be so forlorn.” Sam gazed at Frodo in front of him. He made a very convincing lass. A very sexy lass as well. In won swift movement Sam jumped on top of the giant pile of purple satin and lace petticoats in front of him. Frodo crumpled beneath him.

 

“What? What are you doing?”

 

“You look so beautiful. I must have you, Mr. Frodo.”

 

“But, but…”

 

Sam placed his finger on Frodo’s lips, closing them. “Not another word.” Frodo started sucking on Sam’s finger.

 

“Am I that irresistible?”

 

“Yes.” Sam began to remove his britches. He lifted Frodo’s legs up above his head. The petticoats moved to reveal Frodo’s tender nether regions.

 

“Sam?” Frodo asked pathetically.

 

“Yes, Mr. Frodo?” the gardener answered.

 

“Is this going to hurt?” Frodo looked a little scared.

 

“Not if you relax.”

 

“Ok. I’m relaxed. Go ahead, Sam.”

 

“All right, here I go…”