The Man Who Was No Longer A Man

By IshkaWolf

For too long had he kept his desires secret; for too long had he hidden beneath his robes. His tired hands wished to caress a child's plump rosy cheeks, wipe away his tears, but for so many years he had resisted the temptation of magic that could make his dreams become reality. Gandalf fingered the tip of his long, gray beard, deep in thought. If only he could catch someone alone—that would the perfect time to make his move.

His yearning swelled with every thought of a child of his own. It was all too much for this old man to bear! He heaved his tired body out of his reverie and limped towards the door, beside which stood his old, crooked cane. He breathed deeply before heading out into the woods. 'The peace of the forest will surely drive these thoughts from my mind,' he pondered.

He ventured out into the fresh night air, stars glimmering down upon him. Owls hooted in the trees above, perhaps singing sweet lullabies to their young. A grin stretched across his old, withered face, bearing no more than three yellowing teeth—Middle Earth was not known for its dentistry, but Gandalf did not mind. His feet carried him further, deeper into the forest, the sounds of the night putting his mind at ease. He stopped just before a clear, cool brook, fondling his midsection. He did not want a woman to bear his child; this was a task he must fulfill on his own.

The bushes on his left began to rustle. Gandalf swirled around to face what was to come, his robes fluttering about his ankles. His staff was positioned to fight, to ward off any intruder in his solitude. "Who goes there?" he roared.

"'Tis only I, Samwise!" A small, fleshy hobbit emerged from the brush.

Gandalf lowered his staff. "Ah, you frightened me young one. What are you doing out here at this time of night?"

"I should ask you the same thing, friend," Sam replied, grinning.

"Well then, maybe we should just refrain from asking such questions." Gandalf smiled down at the hobbit, but suddenly looking away. Ideas, horrible ideas, were brewing in his mind—small hobbit fingers, lush hobbit lips, soft hobbit thighs—he could contain himself no longer.

He turned back towards the hobbit. His face was grim now. "Sam," he cooed in a low, raspy voice, "Have you ever had a desire that you could not fulfill?" He grasped his staff tighter, unseen magic beginning to flow from his fingertips.

"I suppose so. Why do you ask?"

"I want to fulfill mine, right here and now." The magic wafted around his midsection, teasing the fabric of his robes to the side.

"What do you mean?" Sam was hesitant.

"You know." Gandalf moved closer, petting Sam's cheek, yet Sam did not move; it was as if he understood. Their lips met in a wave of unbridled passion, their tongues swirling together in an erotic dance. In one sweep, Sam removed Gandalf's robes. The old man collapsed to the ground, gasping in desire and Sam moved in for the kill. Gandalf hurriedly unfastened the buttons on Sam's trousers, ripping them down to his knees.

"Touch me," he moaned into Sam's ear.

Sam complied, turning Gandalf over so that he was kneeling on the ground. He stood and thrust his manhood into the old man's wet opening, squealing with delight. Thrust and pull, thrust and pull—the motion continued for what seemed like an eternity, until both men exploded in a wave of ecstasy. Gandalf folded to the ground and Sam pulled on his trousers and left Gandalf to rest.

Gandalf turned on his back, gazing at the stars, and caressed his midsection. Already he could feel a spark of life stirring within him. "Thank you," he whispered into the night. "Thank you for this wonderful gift."