Time seemed to stand still in the Golden Wood of the Elves, easing the strained bodies and stressed minds of the remaining members of the Fellowship of the Ring. The rigors and tragedies of the journey from Rivendell weighed heavily on each of the walkers, but the beauty and serenity that now surrounded them was a sanctuary. Though it was the dead of winter by the calendar, in Lothlórien warm breezes wafted from the south, and it was always as spring.
After their initial interview with the rulers of the Golden Wood, Merry and Pippin were left to their own devices. They took to exploring the myriad paths beneath the mallorn trees, often coming upon secluded glades and shimmering pools of bright, clear water. Day followed day, and one morning at breakfast they secreted some of the soft white rolls and a couple of apples in their pockets, and with second breakfast assured, they set off to explore more of the Elven paradise.
They followed another new path leading away from the area that had been dedicated to the use of the Fellowship, their bare feet leaving little trace on the hard-packed soil of the path. They sang a favorite song as they strode along, their bright eyes taking in the beauty that surrounded them.
“Hey, ho, to the pub I go,” Pippin sang.
“To fill my heart and drown my woe,” Merry chimed in. The cousins walked side by side, each with an arm looped over the other’s shoulder. “The rain may fall and the wind may blow, but there still be many miles to go,” they sang on. “Sweet is the sound of the pouring rain, and the stream that falls from hill to plain....”
The trees thinned and the path led into shady glen surrounding a large pond. A brook flowed over rocks into the pool, and again at its opposite shore to drain it, but the surface was still, reflecting the pale blue of the sky. They stopped suddenly at the edge of the clearing, the rest of their song forgotten.
Pippin cast a sidelong glance at Merry and sniffed at his coat. “Thinking of a bath?”
“I daresay we could both use a bath,” Merry chided. Merry sniffed at his own waistcoat. He’d brushed most of the dirt of Moria from the yellow wool, but he could still smell the stink of orcs on it. He lifted his arm from Pippin’s shoulder and unfastened the buttons of his waistcoat and shrugged out of it.
“It looks deep,” Pippin cautioned. He had as much Brandybuck blood in him as Merry did, but Tookburrow was far from the River Brandywine and his swimming and boating experiences were limited to the holidays he’s spent in Buckland.
“Near the bank it should be safe,” Merry remarked. “Besides, it’s not so large you couldn’t swim from one side to the other with just a couple of strokes.” He slapped his younger cousin on the shoulder. “Last one in is a Bracegirdle!”
Soon two piles of brightly colored clothing lay under an ancient tree. Both Hobbits plunged into the pond at the same moment, laughing and splashing at each other. The water was surprisingly comfortable, much warmer than the icy streams they had crossed in their trek down the mountainside from the gates of Moria. The bottom of the pond was sandy, sloping gently from the bank to the center of the pond. Merry tested the depth, losing his footing about a third of the way to the opposite shore. He paddled on, and when he judged he was as far from one bank as the other, took a deep breath and held it, then dove down, kicking his feet until his hands found the bottom. He gathered his feet under him, then stretched upward. He could see the glimmer of the sunlight on the surface of the water, his height again above him. A few strong kicks took him back to the air, and he tread water before returning to the shallows where Pippin waited.
Neither Hobbit heard Boromir approach though the Man made far more noise moving through the trees than an Elf would. It was Boromir’s deep-throated laugh they first heard, a sound they had not heard since the days before their assault on Caradhas and their descent into Moria.
“Oh, it’s you, Boromir,” Pippin chirped.
“Come on in and join us,” Merry added. “The water’s warm and fine.”
“Forgive me, little ones,” the Gondorian replied. “I knew not that you were here. I’ll leave you to your bathing.”
Pippin and Merry exchanged a mischievous look, then turned their eyes back to Boromir. The Hobbits approached the shore, their bare and dripping bodies revealed bit by bit.
Boromir trained his vision at the tops of the trees on the opposite bank, flustered once again by the Halflings’ ignorance of propriety.
“Here, Boromir,” Merry said. “We’ll help you.”
“He wears a lot of clothes, doesn’t he?” Pippin commented.
“Aye,” Merry reached for the buckle of Boromir’s sword belt and swiftly unfastened it, letting it fall to the ground with the weight of the heavy steel weapon. At the same time Pippin’s nimble fingers opened the metal clasps on the long, leather vest.
The two Halflings soon had the tall man stripped to his small clothes, all the while carrying on a conversation between themselves, commenting on the clothing they removed, its size, its color, or quite often, its need for cleaning.
“You’ll want to give that a good washing,” Merry advised as he tugged at the tightly wound breechclout, leaving Boromir fully exposed.
The disrobing had proceeded so quickly with never a by-your-leave on the part of the Hobbits, that Boromir was stunned. Though he was proud of his physique, he had never been one to parade himself before others even in the years he had spent living in barracks or on bivouac with his men. The genuine innocence of his companions, though, put him at ease, for they behaved as though it were the most natural thing for three men — er, males — er, fellows — to cavort in the nude in a forest pool.
Merry and Pippin each took one of his large hands in their smaller ones and together drew him into the water. They were right, he thought, the water is warm, and it would be nice to be clean once again.
“Did you see, Merry?” Pippin asked. “He has hair on his chest.”
“Of course he does, Pip.” Merry’s voice took on a familiar tone. “He’s a Man. They have hair all over.”
“He’s not as hairy as Gimli, though.” Pippin’s small hands ghosted over Boromir’s chest, teasing at the curling strands of hair.
Deeper into the pond they pulled him, and the pleasantly warm water lapped at his loins, lifting his manhood away from his groin.
“And have you ever seen a dong that size?”
“Master Pippin,” Boromir said, “that’s hardly an appropriate remark.” He could feel warmth in his cheeks, and knew his face was crimson with embarrassment.
“It’s not hard at all now,” Merry joked. “I’ll bet it’s huge when he gets busy with it.”
Pippin giggled and blushed. “Even bigger than you are, Merry.”
The older Hobbit eyed the Man’s groin then his own. “I don’t know about that, Pip,” he boasted with a broad grin. “Maybe we’ll have to have a contest.”
“Oh, that would be grand,” Pippin said. “I can be the judge.”
“How’s that sound, Boromir?” Merry moved closer, still holding his hand.
Before he could respond, he felt Pippin sidle up to his other side, the small, naked body pressing against his hip and thigh, and he gasped in surprise. He tried to catch his breath, but when Merry moved close, his hand skimming along his lower abdomen, he felt his manhood swell and harden.
“Hold, now, little ones,” he said. The turn of the conversation startled him, and his own reaction to the Merry and Pippin’s closeness came as a surprise. He had never looked on the Halflings with lust; verily, he thought of them still as children under his protection.
“Oh, Merry, we’re scaring him. D’you think he’s never....” They moved back toward the shore, the two small bodies pressing against him, their hands on his chest and hip and rump, then suddenly grasping his organ, and he surged to full hardness.
“Me?” he managed to gasp. “Scared? I think not.”
“Of course he has, Pip. Boromir is a soldier, and you know how soldiers are.”
“But you are not....”
“Not what?” Merry countered. “We are not children, you know. Pip may be only in his tweens, but I’m past forty myself.”
Once in the shallows, the Hobbits bore the captain to the ground, and he lay back on the grassy sward, his feet still in the water.
Pippin’s hand continued teasing across his chest, tweaking each nipple in turn before he lowered his head to lick and suckle at the hardened nubs. Merry split his attentions between the opposite nipple and Boromir’s straining erection. As he pulled the sensitive flesh into this mouth, his hand stroked the Man’s organ.
Boromir knew he should put an stop to this, that he could easily overpower either or both of the Halflings. It had been so very long since he’d felt the touch of a gentle hand, and even longer since any lips — man or woman — had touched his flesh. He sighed and relaxed against the grass.
Pippin raised his head just enough to say, “He likes it, Merry. I knew he would.”
Merry hummed his agreement, sending a shudder through the man’s body, and a gasp when small fingers stroked his sac. Tentatively he wrapped his arms around the Hobbits’ shoulders, his callused fingers skimming over their smooth backs, still damp from the pool. Their skin was as smooth as a woman’s, he thought, though the play of muscles was more like a man’s.
The Halfling in his right arm — Pippin, he realized — squirmed under his touch, rubbing his own arousal against Boromir’s side. He felt a similar erection on his other side, Merry moving in slow thrusts against him. For the first time since leaving Rivendell — no, since he had left Gondor itself — he felt like he could truly relax and be at ease. Here in the secluded glen he could be just another Man, not the son of the Steward or the Captain of the White city. For just this moment he could forget about the Fellowship’s quest and the tremendous burden he’d carried since Gandalf fell.
Merry’s fingers skimmed along the length of his manhood, then swirled around the leaking tip, bringing a low moan of pleasure from the Man’s lips.
“Hmmmm,” the older Hobbit mumbled against his chest. “He does like that.” He moved away from the turgid nipple, the balmy air suddenly chill on the damp flesh. He nuzzled along the Man’s ribs, to his loins, then dipped into the deep navel. He wriggled his tongue tip around the indentation, then licked away the pearly fluid that had pooled on the lean belly.
While Merry had moved downward, Pippin inched up, kissing and licking the strongly muscled shoulders and neck, finally finding a fleshy earlobe to suck on.
How long could he stand such an assault? Boromir wondered. The Hobbits continued their ministrations, and wave after wave of pleasure washed over him, and he gave himself over to their seduction. He tangled his fingers in Pippin’s hair and guided their mouths to finally meet. Boromir parted his lips, inviting Pip to taste him, and he drew the slick, wet tongue deep into his own mouth.
Pippin moaned and swung one leg over the Man’s broad chest, trapping his own erection between their bodies just as Merry slid his mouth over the steel hard erection. Boromir’s hips bucked, driving his organ deep into the Halfling’s throat, the hot wetness filling him with undeniable urges. He stroked Merry’s head, holding it against his thrusts, then drove his tongue deep into Pippin’s mouth. Forcefully he explored, running his tongue across the white teeth, stroking the roof of his mouth. The movements of his hips served to rub the younger Halfling’s organ between their bodies, and soon he felt a warm wetness spreading.
By Eru’s balls, he swore to himself, that hobbit has a talented mouth. Suddenly the familiar tightness in his groin warned him and he pulled away from Pippin’s kiss, shouting his passion as he spasmed, filling Merry’s mouth with his hot essence.
Pippin clenched his knees to Boromir’s ribs, riding out the orgasm. As the Man’s shudders stilled, he felt his cousin’s hands on his hips and the other Hobbit’s erection against his rump.
“Hold still, Pip,” Merry mumbled, his voice thick. “I can’t last much longer.” He slicked Pippin’s opening with Boromir’s seed, pushing his fingers deeply past the tight muscles, stretching and loosening them.
“Go on, Merry,” the younger Hobbit gasped. “I’m ready for you.” He turned his head back to the panting Man and kissed him gently. “Hold on, Boromir,” he whispered against the swollen, bruised lips. He gasped wordlessly as he was broached by Merry’s organ, shifting position slightly to accommodate him. “Merry’s very good at this.” He kissed Boromir again, but had to draw away to breathe — gasp, actually — in time with Merry’s rhythmic thrusts.
Boromir looked past Pippin’s mop of curls to see Merry’s face, eyes closed in ecstasy, head thrown back. With one massive thrust, Merry opened his eyes and looked directly at the Man as he emptied himself, he and Pippin both crying out.
The woods seemed to echo their cries for long moments while the odd threesome tumbled from the precipices of passion. Both Hobbits collapsed across Boromir’s chest, their combined weight making his already labored breathing even more difficult. He ran his large hands across their backs, from shoulders to rounded rumps, collecting soft, gentle kisses from each in turn. After long moments their breathing calmed, and the trilling songs of birds filled the secluded glen once again.
“That was incredible,” Boromir offered, tightening his embrace in a dual hug. “I would never have imagined such pleasures from the two of you.”
“I told you we’re not children,” Merry chided.
“I said he’d like it, Merry,” Pippin interrupted. “We just had to find the right time and place.”
“Yes, Pip, you were right this time,” Merry admitted.
“This time?” Pippin rose up on his elbow. “I’ve been right a lot of times!”
“You were wrong that time in Buckleberry....”
Merry’s counter was stopped as Boromir covered his mouth with a demanding kiss, then silenced Pippin’s giggle by turning his head and pressing their lips together once again.
He held them close, each head pillowed on one of his strong shoulders, their curly hair tickling his neck and jaw.
The sun was high in the sky when Boromir woke the dozing Hobbits. “Come, my little friends,” he said, sitting up with his arms still around their shoulders. “If any of us needed a bath before, we all surely do now.” He pulled his feet under him and rose onto his knees and thence to his feet, each of the Hobbits tucked under an arm, their feet flailing behind them. He strode into the water with his burdens squirming, and dropped them both in the deepest part of the pond.
“Besides, it’s almost time for luncheon.”