They thinks we don't sees it, precious. They thinks we don't know. Good Smeagol says nothing: it's none of his business what the hobbits do under the White Face. But I sees it. I know.
Last night we leaves them sleeping to go find foodses, yes. No fish. Only nasty bugs and worms -- we're so hungry, precious, and hobbitses have only dust and ashes, stinking elf-food, we can't eats it, it burns our mouth. But we needs to rest too, so we comes back to the hobbits soon enough.
We finds them waking, and whispering between themselveses, first that other hobbit's voice, then nice Master's. We creeps closer, listening. Secrets. We likes secretses, don't we, precious?
"--don't want to demand that of you, Sam."
"Not a matter of demanding, sir. Not like it's a sacrifice, neither. I can't offer you fine words or good food, not in this place. Seems like the air here would take the pleasure from it even if we did have proper food and drink and a bit of Mr. Bilbo's poetry to listen to." Nasty hobbit speaks so low and hasty we can hardly hears him. We presses close to the rock to listens better. "But I can offer you heart and comfort. Since Stinker's gone off to find food, I thought we could at least, well, rest together, begging your pardon."
"You don't need my pardon, Sam." Master soundses like he's smiling, and we peeks over the rocks to see them. The hobbits lie where we left them, yes, curled up in the shadow of the rockses. They face each other, so close their handses almost touch. "I should ask yours. It's been so long... but if you want more than rest -- we've no more than these rocks to lie on, and we're both very muddy--"
The other hobbit -- nasty, suspicious hobbit, Sam-hobbit -- reaches out so it's not an almost any more. He strokes the master's arm, nice, gentle stroking. "Don't you go begging my pardon neither. It's not been safe, I won't deny it. As to rocks, I don't mind them. You shared yourself on rocks in Moria, and I wasn't complaining then." Master murmurs as if to speak, but the nasty hobbit keeps right on. "As to mud, well, that won't mend until we get a proper bath. I know I stink -- Gollum reminded me of that right enough--"
Master smiles again: we can see it. "I do too." He pushes at the Sam-hobbit, and we freezes, thinking he sees us. But he's wanting something else, fingers at Sam's waist. "I'm not objecting--" Sam-hobbit pushes away nice master's handses, but we can't see where he puts them. Master tries to keep speaking: "--not private, he might return any--"
Sam bends down and kisses master on the lipses. "Don't worry none about that, Mr. Frodo," he says, and sits back up. His handses go to master's waist.
We remembers this. We remember before the precious came, before poor Smeagol had to go away. We remember touchings and tastings, sweet juicy mouths and plump fingers, yes. We remembers. Nice master. Good master.
But master doesn't need poor Smeagol, no, no. He has Sam-hobbit to touch him. Sam-hobbit has master's clothing open now, and he's reached inside. Master's head is back, and he's moaning. Too loud, precious, the Wraiths will hear, His Eye will see. We must quiet him, put our handses over his mouth -- but Sam won't let us, we sees it in his eyes. No! No, we don't sees it, because Sam didn't see us. Quiet, we are. Too quiet and tricksy for nice hobbits to see. No looks from nasty Sam-hobbit, oh no, no looks.
Sam-hobbit's not looking now. He bends forward, he does, and puts his mouth there. We leans forward: we can't see, precious, and we wants to see, we wants to know. Master brings his hand up to his mouth and bites one of his fingerses. We looks away from that. We knows how that feels, yes precious, fightings and bitings. Sam-hobbit isn't biting now, oh no precious, and we wants to see this pleasureses.
But we catch only glimpses, white and red and pink, like a new kind of fishes. We daren't laugh at our little joke, or the stinking Sam-hobbit will notice us after all, we mustn't risk it. We watch, precious, and we sees as the master, the nice hobbit, he takes his pleasures in Sam's mouth and lies there panting. Nasty Sam-hobbit sits up again, and we ducks back so he won't sees us.
"Oh, Sam." Master is smiling again, we can hears it in his voice, and we creeps forward again to sees it for ourselves. "Beloved Sam. You're far too good to me."
"No more'n I should." Sam-hobbit wipes his nasty mouth. "If it'll give a bit of brightness in this place--"
I close my eyes. I don't want to sees this. I don't want to remember.
But we can hear, even if we don't sees it. We can hear Sam-hobbit's muffled moan. And we can guess what happens as we turn our back and go away.
They thinks we don't sees it. They thinks we don't know. Even Sam-hobbit said nothing on the night's march, nothing but the usual cruel snipings at poor Smeagol. They wouldn't careses if we did know. Master has Sam to give him pleasureses, to share his pleasureses, he doesn't care if Smeagol... if Smeagol...
The Yellow Face is sinking again. It's time to move on, precious. Wake the sleeping hobbits. The Gates are only a little walk now.
– end –
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