Bag End

Before the Fellowship of the Ring is formed

The fire in Bag End crackled, its golden glow bathing the hobbit-hole’s rounded walls, where the scent of honeysuckle mingled with the rich aroma of honey-drizzled cream-filled cakes, freshly baked by Rosie Cotton for second breakfast. Frodo Baggins, his blue eyes alight with mischief, had gathered his closest friends—Samwise Gamgee, Meriadoc Brandybuck, and Peregrin Took—for a private evening in the Shire, a night of warmth and secrets in their cozy haven. The table groaned under mushroom pies and gleaming tankards of honeyed mead, the air thick with the haze of potent Old Toby pipe-weed and the promise of revelry.

A knock at the round door broke their laughter. Sam, his cheeks flushed from mead, opened it to find Rosie Cotton, her chestnut curls cascading over her shoulders, her buxom figure hugged by a flour-dusted apron over a low-cut blouse and flowing skirt. “Brought cakes for you lads,” she teased, her hazel eyes locking with Sam’s, her smile bold yet warm. “Mind if I stay?”

“Rosie, you’re a gift,” Frodo said, ushering her in with a grin. Pippin eyed the pastries hungrily, but Sam’s gaze lingered on Rosie’s curves, his heart pounding like a drum.

As the night deepened, the mead and pipe-weed worked their magic, loosening tongues and inhibitions. Frodo, sensing the charged air, proposed a game of secret desires, a daring twist on hobbit traditions. “Name a pleasure you’ve never dared speak,” he said, his voice low and teasing. Rosie, sipping her mead, confessed, “I want to be the center, spoiled by every touch, every kiss.” Sam, trembling, admitted, “I want to kiss every inch of someone special,” his eyes on Rosie. Merry craved being bound and teased until he begged, Pippin longed to be worshipped like a king, and Frodo desired to lead them all into ecstasy.

“Let’s make it real,” Frodo purred, gesturing to a nest of blankets and pillows before the fire. “No shame tonight.” The hobbits exchanged glances, their trust and the night’s enchantment dissolving their usual Shire modesty. As one, they began to strip, their clothes falling to the floor in a shared act of vulnerability, the firelight revealing their naked forms and igniting a spark of awe, especially toward Rosie.

Frodo’s shirt fell away, baring a pale, smooth chest, lean, but softly rounded, with a faint trail of dark hair leading to a slender waist. His breeches dropped, revealing strong, hairy legs and large hobbit feet with ebony curls glinting in the glow. His penis, modest yet firm, nestled in dark pubic hair, stirred as he gazed at Rosie, a soft gasp escaping him at her voluptuous form, his manhood twitching with quiet hunger.

Sam, sturdy from gardening, shed his waistcoat and shirt, revealing a broad chest dusted with golden-brown hair that thickened toward a slight, endearing paunch. His breeches fell, baring thick, hairy legs and feet with warm brown curls. His manhood, thick and honest, rested in coarse pubic hair, hardening as his hazel eyes locked on Rosie, his face flushing with adoration, her bare form a dream made flesh.

Merry, bold as ever, stripped with a grin, his lean, athletic frame honed from Buckland adventures. His lightly muscled chest bore sparse light brown hair, his tanned skin glowing. His breeches revealed sinewy legs and feet with sandy curls, his penis lean and eager in light pubic hair, half-erect. His grin softened to awe as he saw Rosie, muttering, “Bless the Shire,” his arousal evident in his tightening grip.

Pippin, giggling nervously, shed his clothes to reveal a lithe, boyish frame, almost elfin, with pale, nearly hairless skin save for a faint trail below his navel. His nimble legs and feet bore soft, golden curls, his manhood slender and youthful in sparse pubic hair, stirring with excitement. He stifled a delighted squeak, his cheeks flaming as he stared at Rosie’s curves.

Rosie, at the center, commanded their attention. She untied her apron, letting it fall, then unlaced her blouse slowly, revealing creamy, freckled skin. The blouse slipped away, exposing her full, heavy breasts, their rosy nipples hardening in the warm air. Her skirt pooled at her feet, baring curvaceous hips, a soft, rounded belly, and strong, shapely legs. Her hobbit feet, smaller but hairy, bore delicate chestnut curls matching the thick, dark pubic hair framing her womanhood. Her body glowed like honey, lush and inviting. The male hobbits froze, their breaths catching—Sam’s heart pounded, Merry’s eyes widened, Pippin’s cheeks flushed, and Frodo’s gaze softened with appreciation—each stirred by her beauty, their manhoods betraying their desire in the fire’s glow.

In the Shire, nudity was rare beyond family baths, but in this trusted circle, fueled by mead and Old Toby, the hobbits’ earthy nature embraced their bare forms. Rosie’s confidence—her unapologetic curves, her proud stance—set them at ease, their hairy feet, rounded bellies, and now-evident arousals feeling natural in the intimate warmth.

Frodo, taking charge, produced a coil of silken rope, his fingers deft as he approached Merry. “Your desire first,” he murmured, binding Merry’s wrists above his head, tethering them to a beam. Merry’s lean frame quivered, his manhood throbbing as Frodo’s touches teased, his voice commanding, “Beg, Merry.” Merry’s defiance crumbled, his pleas spilling out as Frodo’s fingers grazed his sensitive skin.

Rosie, radiant, beckoned the others, her voice a sultry invitation. “Come, lads, spoil me.” She reclined on the pillows, her full breasts rising with each breath, their rosy peaks a beacon. Sam, trembling with devotion, knelt first, his lips brushing her freckled shoulder before finding her breast, kissing the soft, heavy curve, then sucking gently on her nipple, drawing a low moan from Rosie. His thick manhood pulsed as he lavished her, his hazel eyes meeting hers in worship. Pippin, eager, joined him, his youthful lips kissing her other breast, sucking with playful fervor, his slender manhood straining as Rosie’s gasps filled the air. Merry, still bound, watched with a groan, his erection throbbing, until Frodo, with a sly smile, untied the ropes, freeing him to join the revelry.

Merry, now unbound, dove into the fray, his lips finding Rosie’s breast, sucking eagerly as his hands roamed her curves, his lean manhood brushing her hip. “Rosie, you’re a marvel,” he murmured, his tongue circling her nipple, her soft moans urging him on. Frodo, his lips claimed by Rosie’s in a deep, hungry kiss, tangled his tongue with hers, his hands cupping her face as Sam, Merry, and Pippin worshipped her breasts, their lips and tongues drawing shudders of pleasure from her lush form. The symphony of their kisses and sucks—Sam’s reverent, Pippin’s playful, Merry’s eager—filled the air, Rosie’s moans harmonizing with the fire’s crackle.

The revelry grew bolder, the hobbits’ desires intertwining. Sam, emboldened, kissed Rosie deeply, his lips warm and earnest against hers, then trailed down to Pippin’s slender manhood, sucking gently, drawing a surprised gasp from the young Took. Pippin, flushed and eager, returned the favor, his lips closing around Merry’s lean erection, his tongue teasing as Merry moaned, his hands tangling in Pippin’s golden curls. Frodo, guiding the dance, pulled back from Rosie’s lips to suck Sam’s thick manhood with slow, deliberate strokes, Sam’s groans mingling with Rosie’s sighs. Rosie, the heart of the revel, guided Merry’s hand to her backside, whispering, “Explore, Meriadoc.” Merry, with a wicked grin, teased her with gentle fingers, circling her tight entrance before easing into anal play, his touch careful but bold, drawing a shuddering gasp from Rosie as she arched into the sensation.

The hobbits moved fluidly, with a tangle of limbs and laughter. Rosie’s breasts remained the center of devotion—Sam’s lips sucking softly, Pippin’s tongue flicking playfully, Merry’s mouth nipping eagerly—while their lips found each other’s manhoods, sucking and teasing in a kinky dance of trust. Rosie’s hands roamed, stroking Frodo’s modest erection, then Pippin’s, her lips kissing Sam’s as he gasped from Frodo’s ministrations. Merry, fully part of the revel, continued his anal teasing, his fingers drawing moans from Rosie as she surrendered to the pleasure. Their hairy feet tangled in the blankets, their manhoods and breasts aglow in the firelight, the air filled with sighs, moans, and the wet sounds of pleasure.

As the night peaked, they collapsed in a heap of blankets, breathless and sated, Rosie’s honey-drizzled cakes untouched but their sweetness surpassed by the night’s delights.

The fire in Bag End had dwindled to glowing coals, casting a ruddy warmth over the hobbit-hole’s rounded walls, where the scent of honeysuckle and cream-filled cakes lingered from Rosie’s second breakfast spread. Samwise, Meriadoc, Peregrin, and Rosie lay in a tangled heap of blankets and pillows by the hearth, their loud snores a merry chorus after the night’s unhinged revelry. Rosie’s voluptuous curves, her full breasts flushed from the worship of Sam, Merry, and Pippin’s lips, nestled against Sam’s sturdy frame, his golden-brown pubic hair glinting faintly in the coal-light. Merry’s lean, tanned body sprawled beside Pippin’s lithe, boyish form, their manhoods softened, hairy feet tangled, the air thick with mead and Old Toby’s haze.

A Pointy Eared Guest with Boobs

Frodo Baggins, his lean, pale frame bare, stood by the round window, his blue eyes catching a shadow outside. His modest manhood, nestled in dark pubic hair, still stirred from the night’s ecstasy—Rosie’s moans under his kisses, Sam’s devoted sucking of her breasts, Merry’s bold anal teasing, Pippin’s playful fervor. The mead and pipe-weed clouded his mind, his heart racing as he unlatched the door, stepping into the cool Shire night. Beneath the ancient oak, a hooded figure stood, cloak shimmering deep green like twilight moss, a silver leaf-brooch glinting in the moonlight.

The figure ducked low to enter Bag End’s rounded door, her height requiring a graceful stoop, and lowered her hood to reveal a radiant elf, her ethereal beauty a starlit contrast to the hobbits’ earthy warmth. “I am Arwen Evenstar, daughter of Elrond of Rivendell,” she said, her voice a melodic ripple, like harp strings under moonlight. Her pale, luminous skin glowed faintly, her deep grey eyes wise yet gentle, like a storm’s promise. Silken black hair cascaded past her shoulders, framing high cheekbones and delicate, pointed ears, her face echoing Lúthien Tinúviel’s legendary grace. At 5’10”, her regal form towered softly over Frodo, her presence both commanding and serene, her green cloak adorned with subtle star and leaf embroidery, a belt holding a pouch and dagger, her soft leather boots silent.

“Frodo Baggins,” she continued, “your uncle Bilbo proved a hobbit’s heart can bear great burdens. I entrust this to you.” She set down a small chest—mithril and dark wood, etched with glowing elven runes, no larger than a breadbox but heavy with purpose. “Guard this relic of my kin, a light against the coming darkness, until I or another calls.”

Frodo, still naked, his manhood twitching faintly under her radiant gaze, flushed crimson, his mind reeling at her name—known only through Bilbo’s tales of Rivendell’s splendor. “My lady,” he stammered, shock trembling in his voice, “I’ll guard it with my life.” Scrambling for a nearby robe, its soft wool draped his slender frame, dark pubic hair peeking as he tied it clumsily. “A drink, perhaps? Mead or ale?” he offered, his mead-fogged courtesy faltering. Arwen shook her head, weariness shadowing her luminous face. “No, thank you,” she murmured, her grey eyes soft with fatigue.

Arwen’s smile deepened, twinkling with amusement as she ducked again to sit on a low hobbit chair, her hood pushed back, hair spilling like a midnight waterfall. “Do all hobbits act so ... freely?” she asked, her voice soft, a playful lilt belying her fatigue as she glanced at the snoring pile—Rosie’s breasts glowing, Sam’s thick manhood nestled in coarse hair, Merry and Pippin’s limbs entwined.

Frodo chuckled, honest and warm, the pipe-weed loosening his tongue. “Only among friends, my lady, with a pipe, cakes, and drink.” His blue eyes met hers, a spark of Shire sincerity bridging their worlds. A moment of quiet settled, the fire’s crackle mingling with the hobbits’ snores, the chest’s runes pulsing faintly on the table.

Arwen’s gaze softened, her weariness evident. “I would like to rest ... may I join you?” she murmured, her fingers unbuttoning her green tunic with graceful deliberation. She rose, ducking low to avoid the hobbit-hole’s curved ceiling, and let her cloak fall, revealing a fitted tunic and leggings in muted green, elven-woven, clinging to her slender form. Subtle star and leaf embroidery caught the coal-light, her belt and dagger glinting softly. She unlaced her tunic, peeling it away, then shed her leggings, baring her nude form in the coals’ glow.

Arwen’s body was elven perfection: slender, lithe, her alabaster skin glowing as if woven from starlight. Her breasts, modestly sized, curved gently, their rosy nipples delicate against her luminous flesh, harmonizing with her graceful frame. Her long, black hair veiled her partially, flowing past her waist, where the faintest wisp of fine, dark pubic hair—sparse as a shadow, true to elven minimal body hair—blended with her flawless skin. Her toned legs and delicate ankles completed her ethereal form, a balance of strength and elegance.

Frodo’s breath caught, his manhood stirring beneath the robe, awe outweighing desire at her radiant nudity. Arwen, unperturbed, smiled her beautiful smile, serene yet inviting, and ducked low again to move to the pile of blankets by the fire. She slipped under them, her glowing form nestling among the snoring hobbits, who stirred but didn’t wake, their snores a steady hum. Frodo, heart pounding, shed his robe, his naked form—lean, pale, with dark pubic hair and modest manhood—joining her. He cuddled close, his small frame curling against her side, her warmth and starlit glow enveloping him like a dream.

Arwen, her grey eyes soft, took Frodo’s hand and gently placed it on one of her breasts, its soft, gentle curve warm under his palm, her rosy nipple a delicate contrast to her glowing skin. She kissed his forehead tenderly, her lips a whisper of elven grace, and began to sing a quiet elvish song, its lilting notes like a lullaby of starlight and ancient woods. The melody wove through the hobbit-hole, mingling with the snores and the coals’ faint crackle, as Frodo’s eyes grew heavy, the weight of her trust and the night’s ecstasy lulling him into sleep. The chest’s runes dimmed on the table, its secret safe in Bag End’s heart, as Arwen’s song cradled them all in the Shire’s warm embrace.

Morning light filtered through Bag End’s round windows, painting the hobbit-hole in soft golds. Frodo stirred, his lean, pale frame still bare from the night’s revelry, his dark pubic hair catching the light as he rose quietly from the blanket pile. He padded to the kitchen, joining Sam, Merry, Pippin, and Rosie, who were bustling about, preparing first breakfast, their nudity as natural as the Shire’s rolling hills after the previous night’s intimacy. The scent of Rosie’s honey-drizzled cakes mingled with fresh-baked bread and sizzling bacon, the hobbits’ hairy feet pattering on the wooden floor, hands clutching pastries and mugs of tea. Frodo, his blue eyes bright, arranged a tray of scones and set it on the table, glancing toward the blanket pile by the hearth where the elven guest lay, her luminous form partially draped in a small woolen blanket, barely covering her slender waist and the faint wisp of dark pubic hair. Her black hair spilled like a midnight waterfall, her modest breasts rising gently with each breath, rosy nipples peeking as the blanket shifted.

Arwen’s grey eyes fluttered open, catching the gaze of five sets of wide, curious eyes—Sam’s hazel awe, Rosie’s warm hazel sparkle, Merry’s twinkling mischief, Pippin’s eager green, and Frodo’s reverent blue. Her elven beauty, even in the morning light, was a starlit marvel, her skin glowing faintly despite the weariness etched in her delicate features. The journey from Rivendell had drained her, and the deep craft of weaving the chest’s glowing runes—elvish lore that wove starlight and will into mithril—had sapped her strength, leaving her in need of rest.

Rosie, her full breasts swaying as she moved, broke the silence first, her cheeks flushing but her smile kind. “Would you like a pastry, my lady?” she offered, stepping forward with a honey-drizzled cake, her chestnut curls bouncing, her nudity as natural as the Shire’s rolling hills. Arwen’s lips curved into a serene smile, her grey eyes twinkling with gratitude as she sat up, the blanket slipping to reveal more of her lithe, glowing form—her toned legs, delicate ankles, and the sparse shadow of pubic hair. She accepted the pastry, her fingers brushing Rosie’s, and nibbled delicately, her elven grace undimmed by the rustic setting.

“I am Arwen, daughter of Elrond of Rivendell,” she said softly, her voice a melodic ripple, introducing herself to the others as she glanced at their naked forms—Sam’s sturdy frame, Merry’s tanned sinew, Pippin’s boyish litheness, and Rosie’s lush curves. “Your hospitality is a balm after a long journey.” She sipped from a glass of water Frodo handed her, her movements elegant despite her fatigue, the blanket barely clinging to her waist as she leaned back.

Frodo, his heart pounding at her presence, cleared his throat. “We’re honored, my lady,” he said, his modest manhood stirring faintly under her gaze, though awe tempered desire. Sam nodded, his thick manhood resting in coarse hair, his face flushed with shy reverence. Merry grinned, his lean erection twitching slightly, while Pippin’s slender manhood perked up, his eyes wide with excitement. Rosie, standing close, radiated warmth, her heavy breasts and chestnut pubic hair aglow in the morning light.

Arwen’s gaze softened, her weariness evident as she set the pastry down. “You must keep my visit a secret,” she murmured, her voice firm yet gentle, like a river’s flow. “The relic I entrusted to Frodo is precious, and my presence here must not be known. I will rest today, if you’ll allow, and depart under night’s cover.” Her grey eyes met each hobbit’s, a silent plea for their promise.

Frodo nodded solemnly, his blue eyes steady. “We swear it, Lady Arwen. Bag End is yours for the day.” Sam, Merry, Pippin, and Rosie echoed his vow, their voices a chorus of Shire sincerity—Sam’s earnest, Merry’s bold, Pippin’s eager, Rosie’s warm. The breakfast continued, the hobbits’ chatter and laughter mingling with the clink of mugs, their nudity a natural extension of the night’s intimacy. As the meal drew to a close, Arwen’s smile turned playful, a spark of intrigue in her grey eyes. “Should you return later for another of your ... games,” she said softly, her voice a teasing lilt, “I might be persuaded to join you.” The hobbits froze, their eyes wide—Sam blushing, Merry grinning, Pippin stifling a giggle, Rosie’s lips parting in surprise—before resuming their chatter, the promise lingering like a star in the morning light.

As breakfast ended, Arwen rose, her lithe form glowing faintly in the morning light. She gathered her deep green cloak, its star and leaf embroidery catching the sun, and wrapped it around her slender frame, the fabric draping elegantly over her modest breasts and sparse pubic hair. “I will rest now,” she murmured, her voice a soft ripple, her grey eyes heavy with fatigue. She settled by the hearth, curling into the nest of blankets, her black hair spilling like a midnight waterfall. The hobbits, still bare, exchanged quiet glances—Sam’s hazel eyes reverent, Rosie’s warm with care, Merry’s twinkling with mischief, Pippin’s green with curiosity—before tidying the table and slipping out to their daily tasks, leaving Arwen to her slumber.

The sun climbed high, bathing Bag End in warmth, and Arwen slept soundly, her breathing soft, the runes on the mithril chest pulsing faintly in rhythm with her dreams. By afternoon, she stirred, her grey eyes bright with renewed vigor, her starlit skin glowing as if kissed by the Valar. She rose, folding her cloak neatly, her nude form radiant in the soft light filtering through the round windows, her fatigue from the Rivendell journey and rune-crafting eased by the Shire’s gentle embrace.

Rosie returned first, her chestnut curls bouncing, a basket brimming with refreshments from the Green Dragon Inn—frothy ale in wooden tankards, crusty bread, sharp cheddar, and apple tarts glistening with honey. She wore a simple skirt and blouse, her buxom figure swaying as she set the spread on the table, her hazel eyes sparkling with anticipation. “For our guest and our game,” she said, her smile warm yet teasing. Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin followed, clad in Shire garments—Frodo in a green waistcoat and breeches, Sam in a brown shirt and trousers, Merry in a yellow vest, Pippin in a loose tunic, their hairy feet peeking beneath. Their eyes met, a shared understanding passing between them, and with quiet nods, they began to disrobe, shedding clothes to join the game’s intimacy, their trust as natural as the Shire’s hills.

Frodo stoked the fire, its golden glow casting shadows on the rounded walls, the scent of ale and tarts mingling with Old Toby’s haze. Arwen stepped forward, her 5’10” frame towering softly over the hobbits’ 3 to 4-foot frames, her luminous skin a starlit contrast to their hairy feet and earthy warmth. Her black hair cascaded past her slender waist, her modest breasts with rosy nipples delicate, her sparse pubic hair like a shadow. “Your hospitality is a marvel,” she said, her voice a melodic ripple, her grey eyes twinkling with playfulness. “What game do you propose, Frodo Baggins?”

Frodo, his blue eyes steady, stepped closer, his modest manhood twitching in dark pubic hair. “A game to honor you, my lady a ‘Starlight’s Dance.’ We share a sensory desire to touch, kiss, or taste and weave them together, circling a central star. Will you be our star, to guide us gently?” His voice was warm, his leadership bridging their worlds.

Arwen’s lips curved into a serene smile, her grey eyes alight. “I will be your star,” she said, “if you’ll share your warmth with me.” She reclined on the nest of blankets and pillows by the fire, her long legs stretched out, her glowing form a beacon. The hobbits, now bare, their cocks stirring; Frodo’s modest, Sam’s thick, Merry’s lean, Pippin’s slender, Rosie’s lush curves aglow formed a circle around her, their short statures reaching her waist and hips, some kneeling on pillows, others standing on low stools for comfort, their hairy feet grounding them in the Shire’s earth.

Frodo began, his voice reverent. “My desire is to kiss your lips, to taste your breath.” He leaned in, a stool beneath him, his lips meeting Arwen’s in a soft, lingering kiss, their tongues tangling gently, his modest manhood throbbing as her melodic sigh filled the air. Arwen’s fingers grazed his dark hair, her smile encouraging.

Sam, his hazel eyes shy, spoke next. “I wish to taste your thighs, to honor your grace.” He knelt by her toned legs, his sturdy frame low, his lips kissing her inner thighs, then sucking playfully near her lips sparse pubic hair, his thick manhood pulsing in coarse hair as Arwen’s breath hitched, her legs parting slightly.

Rosie, her hazel eyes warm, stepped closer, her full breasts swaying. “I’d like to kiss your breasts, to love them.” She knelt by Arwen’s side, her lips finding the gentle curve of a modest breast, sucking gently on the rosy nipple. Arwen moaned softly, her grey eyes fluttering as Rosie’s mouth made her nipple hard, her pale skin glowing brighter.

Merry, bold and grinning, positioned a stool. “I want to taste you lips between you legs, to tease you and taste.” He leaned in, his tanned frame eager, his tongue flicking playfully at her sparse pubic hair, then sucking gently at her folds, his lean manhood straining as Arwen gasped, her slender waist quivering under his bold touch.

Pippin, giggling with excitement, hopped onto a pillow. “I’d love to kiss your neck” His lithe form stretched, his lips nipping playfully at her slender neck and pointy ear, his slender manhood bobbing as Arwen’s soft chuckle mingled with her sighs, her black hair tangling with his golden curls.

The dance grew playful, the hobbits’ desires intertwining. Frodo’s kisses deepened, his tongue exploring Arwen’s mouth, his hands cupping her face, his leadership guiding the rhythm. Sam’s lips roamed her thighs, his tongue teasing closer to her folds and pubic hair, sucking gently, drawing a shuddering moan from Arwen, his devotion a steady pulse, his thick manhood brushing the blankets. Rosie’s mouth lavished Arwen’s breasts, her tongue circling one nipple while her fingers teased the other, her heavy breasts grazing Arwen’s chest, her warmth drawing gasps. Merry’s tongue worked her folds, his bold lips sucking playfully, his lean erection throbbing as Arwen’s moans grew louder. Pippin’s kisses danced along her neck and ears, his playful nips trailing to her earlobe, his lithe frame curling close, his slender manhood brushing her shoulder.

Arwen, the central star, guided their pace, her voice a melodic whisper. “Your joy is a gift,” she purred, her grey eyes half-lidded. “I desire to share your warmth.” She reclined further, her hands stroking Rosie’s curves, her lips brushing Rosie’s chestnut pubic hair, then flicking playfully at her folds, drawing a surprised moan from Rosie, whose lush curves quivered. The hobbits, their cocks pulsing; Frodo’s modest, Sam’s thick, Merry’s lean, Pippin’s slender—drew closer, their circle tightening.

The height difference shaped their play the hobbits kneeling or on stools to reach her upper body, their hairy feet tangling in blankets, while Arwen reclined, her long legs and slender form accessible. Sam and Merry’s oral devotion continued, their tongues playfully teasing Arwen’s folds, their lips overlapping in a lighthearted dance, drawing laughter and moans from Arwen. Rosie, moaning under Arwen’s tongue, leaned forward, her lips brushing Pippin’s slender manhood, sucking gently, Pippin giggling as his lithe frame trembled. Frodo, his modest manhood throbbing, kissed Arwen’s breasts, his tongue circling a rosy nipple, while Sam’s thick manhood and Merry’s lean manhood pulsed nearby, their hairy feet grounding them in the Shire’s earth.

The air filled with playful moans, laughter, and the wet sounds of oral pleasure—Sam and Merry’s devoted sucking, Rosie’s gasps under Arwen’s tongue, Frodo’s sighs, Pippin’s giggles. Arwen’s starlit pale form glowed brighter, her moans harmonizing with the hobbits’ joy, her elven restraint melting into their communal warmth. As the dance reached its crescendo, Arwen’s voice trembled. “Together, now,” she whispered, guiding their positions for a shared climax. Arwen, kneeling on the blankets, took Frodo’s modest manhood in her mouth, her lips sucking gently, her hand cupping his balls with elven grace, drawing soft gasps from him. She then turned to Sam, her lips enveloping his thick manhood, even as he reached for her tit, his deep groans filling the air. Rosie, kneeling nearby, took Merry’s lean manhood in her mouth, her warm lips sucking playfully, her hand cupping his balls, his bold moans echoing. She then shifted to Pippin, her lips closing around his slender manhood, his gleeful giggles rising.

Their breaths synced, manhoods pulsing in rhythm with Arwen and Rosie’s fervent sucking. Frodo’s modest penis shuddered in Arwen’s mouth, Sam’s thick manhood throbbed in her hand, Merry’s lean manhood trembled in Rosie’s warm mouth, and Pippin’s slender manhood quivered with her touch. Arwen and Rosie, their own arousal heightened by the hobbits’ pleasure, felt their folds pulse in anticipation. With a shared cry—Arwen’s melodic, Frodo’s soft, Sam’s deep, Rosie’s warm, Merry’s bold, Pippin’s gleeful, they climaxed together, the hobbits’ releases filling Arwen and Rosie’s mouths and fists, their own orgasms surging in harmony, bodies trembling in the firelight, hairy feet and toned legs tangled, the air thick with their collective ecstasy.

They collapsed around Arwen, breathless and sated, their short frames curling against her tall form, hairy feet tangled with her toned legs, the fire’s crackle mingling with their contented sighs. As night fell, Arwen rose, her grey eyes soft with gratitude. She stepped to her folded garments, her luminous skin glowing faintly in the firelight. With graceful deliberation, she donned her elven-woven leggings in muted green, their subtle star and leaf embroidery catching the glow. She laced her fitted tunic, its fabric clinging to her slender form, accentuating her modest breasts. She fastened her leather belt, securing a small purse—embroidered with silver threads—and a slender dagger, its hilt etched with elven runes, both glinting softly. She pulled on her soft leather boots, silent as moonlight, and draped her deep green cloak over her shoulders, its silver leaf-brooch pinning it at her throat, the fabric shimmering like twilight moss. Her black hair flowed like a midnight stream, framing her radiant face.