Like a rubber band, his mind snapped back from that painful memory to the current day. They were now filtering back like some obscure dream, but he saw them as more of a nightmare. He still longed for the feel of the 'precious' in his hands, and remembered when it used to comfort him. Used to whisper untrue things into his ear.
His right hand balled into a fist, clenching so hard it turned white and drew blood. When it lied to him, now that he could think, it lied to him. No more.
The pain was gently beginning to ebb away. Sméagol heard the slight commotion of water shifting. He opened his eyes to see the two hobbits naked, standing in the water and beginning to lather up with the soap. Cocking his head in a surprised fashion, he began to sit up.
Frodo noticed, and looked over in his direction. Sméagol sat up completely, backbone curving ever so slightly. Even on the small and shallow ledge he sat on, the water came up to his waist. He breathed deep, the hot air making it slightly difficult. His dark, loosely curled, fragile, dry yet soft hair usually looked brown and lightweight. But the addition of water bogged it down and clumped it up. Now it appeared black, and a hint of its curliness returned as a tragic reminder of its former glory. It hung partially in front of his face, and the other behind his pointy ears.
"You see, doesn't this feel good, Sméagol?" his master asked with a smile. He then slowly walked closer to his companion, and held out his hand. "Here, why don't you come in deeper?"
Sméagol had to admit, it felt wonderful. It was almost like feeling years of grime wash away. So he took his master's hand, and he gently let himself fall into the deeper end with the two other hobbits. Sam took a step back, a look of nervousness on his face.
The water held Sméagol aloft, only occasionally needing to balance on his left leg, moving with his right arm. He could even move his broken limbs a little without much pain.
"It's good, master," Sméagol spoke up. "It helps." And he dipped his head below the surface for a moment to wet his head. Frodo smiled, comforted by his well-being. Sméagol reached below the surface and grabbed at his own loincloth, untying it. It had been bloodied as well. He lay back against the wall of the pool and let the warmth of the water have its full effect on his mutilated body.
Frodo watched as the emaciated being tried to relax himself. It gave him a sense of satisfaction that he was able to help the tortured soul. He continued to lather himself up, relieved to get off the filth that he'd managed to collect from the journey. Rubbing the soap through his hair, he managed to clean his black curls. Running his hands through his hair, he massaged his dirty scalp, then dipped into the water to try and rinse it through.
After he felt he was finished, Frodo handed the rag and bar of soap to Sam. He, too, began to wash. Then Frodo turned back to Sméagol, watching as he opened his eyes a little. He shifted slightly in his step and leaned less against the rock. Making a deep noise in his throat, he wiped some dried fluids from his eyes with his free hand.
Then Sméagol slipped a little, but managed to catch himself. A look of surprise came to his eyes, though. Concerned, the Ring-bearer took a step forward, and he knew what he most likely had to do. Sméagol looked up at his master as he approached him. "Master?"
He asked in that sad, timid voice.
"Hush. Here...." And Frodo ignored Sam's presence as he wrapped his arms around the lithe figure. His back to his other friend, he kept Sméagol elevated slightly above the rock bottom. Sméagol let out a wistful sigh and fell back into his embrace. Right then, nothing else mattered. He knew that Sam's eyes were burrowing into his back. Who wouldn't stare at the obvious scene beginning to unfold?
Sam couldn't turn away; he merely stood, paralyzed and silent, staring at the two. What had started as a caring relationship between them had grown and become something more. It wasn't necessarily sexual, just a desire to get closer, by any means necessary.
They were bound to one another; Frodo merely wanted to bring the two halves together.
"What's master doing?" Sméagol asked, a confused and bewildered tone in his voice.
Even Frodo didn't know; he simply held him closer to his chest, Sméagol's head in the underside of his neck.
"Trust master, Sméagol. Trust us." And Frodo gently kissed his thinning scalp. Sméagol shivered in his arms and snuggled closer.
Then the sound of Sam steadily approaching became apparent. Frodo froze in his actions; the only reason he had never proceeded was because Sam was always near. Always watching.
Sam came close, body still covered in soap. But his gaze was not of hate or sickness, but of desperation. "I know I can't stop you…" he whispered into Frodo's ear, "so I might as well join you…." And he looked down into the stressed, tensed face of Sméagol. Biting his lip and closing his eyes, he leaned forward and began to dig his face into his thin shoulder, inhaling his unique scent and savoring the pure taboo they were engaging in.
Sam looked up with sorrowful eyes, unsure of what even he wanted. Frodo's mouth was slightly open in surprise and astonishment. He was naked, except for the chain around his neck, on it the object of Sméagol's obsession.
But Frodo noticed he never reached for it, shying away from its presence. He no longer feared him, and put his full trust in the older, wiser, hobbit. Frodo, along with Sam, began to kiss Sméagol along the shoulder. But Sam was also washing him tenderly, all along his chest.
Sméagol looked as though he didn't know how to react, eyes swiftly darting from one to the other. He wasn't even sure whether he wanted it; the idea of Sam touching him… like that... was both alien and frightening. "Sam mustn't…no, you mustn't…." Then he moaned softly as San nipped the corner of his right ear; he had found his sweet spot.
Sméagol twitched in his master's arms, and it was apparent to both at this point that he was beginning to grow aroused. Panting, he let his head loll over to his right and peered at the entrance of the cave. Eyes slowly closing, he yielded easily to temptation.
Frodo watched as Sam moved the washcloth over Sméagol's pale and dirtied skin, soap suds left in its wake. The bearer of the Ring held him firmly in place as he was gently cleansed. It wouldn't end there, however. With a new vigor, he nuzzled his patient's face and shoulders, his hot breath traveling over his chilled back, causing him to shiver and response.
For at least an hour the three did just this, never going too far; they were afraid to, perhaps. Sam never dared travel below the nether-regions. He ran the soap through Sméagol's few loose strands of hair, then gently began to message his scalp. Frodo moved his hands upward and helped, moving his head slightly in jerks here and there, scooping up some water then, pouring it over him to rinse.
Sméagol's ear was being teased again. He fell back into his master's body, shaking with rising sexual energy. Someone had to make a step forward, and it was Frodo. He leaned over to his companion and whispered into his ear. Sam looked at his master with a gaze of complete and utter horror, but Frodo's face was stern, stare blank. So Sam swallowed, then nodded, and understood completely. "But be gentle…" Frodo added. "He says it still hurts."
Sam reluctantly dropped to his knees and inspected the package before him. Sméagol's genitals were lined with deep scratches and horrible blisters; he could see them below under the surface of the water. There were horrible welts above each testicle, and it was obvious to Sam what had been attempted on him. They appeared to have stopped right before they got to the spermatic cord; he still appeared capable of ejaculating, though it looked as though it could be painful. Sam's skin crawled at the thought.
Frodo moved his hands down Sméagol's thin and wiry backbone, trying his best to please him, love him. Then Sméagol jerked, and let out a low groan at another's touch. His breath became shallow, voice high-pitched.
Sam closed his eyes, swallowed hard, and then with a slow reluctance placed his mouth over Sméagol's shaft. There appeared to be small jolts of pain and unease, but low moans made their way through. Frodo wrapped his arms around Sméagol even tighter, afraid he might slip and injure himself again.
Switching from his mouth to his hands, Sam sensed the buildup of Sméagol's soon-to-be orgasm. He spit several times, a look of horrid disgust awash on his face, but still, he continued. Then it happened; Sméagol bucked into his hands with sudden force, and along with a squeal of pain, fluid was collected for use in the next act.
It was transferred to the awaiting hands of Frodo, who spread it over his very erect member, where it joined the already releasing pre-cum. Then he eagerly pushed inside the tortured being. He pushed inside fully, until his chest was against Sméagol's thin back, arms around his chest, face pressed into the back of his neck. Sméagol's reaction was sudden; he cried out a bit in pain from the sudden penetration. Closing his eyes,
Frodo stopped so that Sméagol could grow accustomed to the feel of him deep within him. The warbling lowered, and Sméagol's breathing became less labored.
"Does it hurt…?" Frodo asked, scared that he might be causing the already hurt being more pain.
Sméagol nodded a little, but just as Frodo was about to reluctantly pull out, he reached back and grabbed his arm. "No, stay…" And so he did.
Sam embraced the steadily accommodating Sméagol; he could no longer stand being left out of the loop. He gently kissed any amount of skin he could find, bile rising in his stomach all the while. Then he reached to his left to collect the rag and soap. He was no longer shy, and washed Sméagol as Frodo began to thrust.
Frodo cried out in obvious pleasure, feeling as though he had truly reached a new level with Sméagol, who was now crying just like himself. Nearing climax, he looked over to
Sam to see his arms wrapped around their patient. Because that's exactly who he was; their job was to heal this poor soul.
'He's getting therapy, all right,' Frodo thought, and he smiled as he reached orgasm.
For Sméagol, the rest of the night was a literal blur. Although he didn't black out, he
phased out of reality to awake later in the night.
Sam, however, was all too awake. But now he was in a sort of daze, mind fuzzing over as he gently rinsed the satisfied Sméagol off and carried him out of the pool. Frodo continued to wash off the remnants of their union, then slowly exited the still-steaming water.
Sam managed to carry Sméagol up and out all by himself, Sméagol's body dripping with moisture. Almost mindlessly, Sam sat him down next to the bare fire ring and retrieved a towel from Frodo's pack. He handed it to his dark-haired friend; none of them spoke.
Even thinking was muted. Frodo finished by rubbing his hair dry, then gave the towel back to Sam.
After thoroughly drying himself, he swiftly moved to their patient. Frodo helped, and kneeled down to lift him up into a sitting position. His hair was gently wiped dry, the fingernails picked free of any grime left over, the only moisture present in the curves of his ears. Eyes closed, Sméagol sighed in a heavenly manner and fell against the still naked Sam; he jerked in response, but was too degenerated to move him. Instead,
Sméagol fell into a deep, deep sleep in his strong arms.
They sat for at least an hour in silence. It turned to darkness outside. Sam, in all his tenderness, managed to re-bandage Sméagol's arm and leg. He still remained naked, however, as the other Elven-made bandages were being washed due to their blood and pus stains. They now resided at the bottom of the bathing pool, soaking in the soapy water.
Sméagol lay now on his side, his steadily drying brown hair matted and lying about. One could have sworn it had grown a few inches longer, his eyes closed in a comfy sleep.
Frodo lovingly placed his blanket atop him, and made sure that he had another soft blanket beneath him. Sam saw his master smile as he rubbed the injured hobbit's head in fond memory.
"He's getting better…you know," Frodo said, breaking the sacred silence. Sam looked up, face blank, as he had grown pale and sickly from the experience. Frodo gazed downwards, not wanting to lock eyes with his friend.
"...I know," Sam muttered. "He's defiantly different. Even I can see that…." And he trailed off as he turned his head towards the cave entrance. The sweet sound of crickets and frogs filled the air, casting a nightly harmony that seemed to fit the mood.