BUTTER

by europanya

Written for the HobbitSmut LJ Community First Line Challenge

in which I had to build a story around "It got stuck and I couldn't get it loose!"

"It got stuck and I couldn't get it loose!"

"See here, Mr. Frodo. The trouble is your shaft needs a bit of greasing to get it moving proper again. I know just the thing. Hold on!"

That would be Sam I hear--that strapping young hobbit-gardener helping out the Master today. Sounds as if he's in a bit of a tight spot and I've a notion Sam'll be coming for me any minute to help ease the problem, whatever it may be.

"Sam! Where are you going? You aren't going to leave me out here holding it up like this, are you?"

"Won't be but a moment, sir. I reckon the strain won't be too hard on you. That old tool's got a few tricks left in it, as they say!"

"Sam!"

I can hear Sam coming through the backdoor now and into the kitchen. He's heading for the cupboards.

"There's nothing for it, Mr. Frodo! You'll have to hold it or else it's likely to spurt all over the door and we wouldn't want the boards to warp, would we?"

"No…." I can hear the Master answer weakly as Sam opens the cabinet sheltering my little hiding space.

"Hold on! Here we go!" says Sam as he takes me up by the handle and lifts me out. He grabs a spoon and a couple clean rags and hurries us all outside. It's bright out here in the garden. The bees are buzzing and the finches are doing their scratching and chirping. I don't get out much, so the change of scene is quite welcome. My place is over the kitchen counter where Sam will reach up to add a generous tablespoon of me to the fryer or a nice pot of steaming tea.

"Sam," Master says as I'm set at his feet. "That's the buttercrock."

"Right it is, Mr. Frodo. Just churned it fresh this morning myself. We're fresh out o' pig fat, begging your pardon. I'm not expecting more 'til the slaughtering is done later this week. I wasn't looking to be greasing up nothing until then, so this will have to serve. I've used it a time or two to ease the pipes and works. Nothing finer for it, mind I keep the crock clean! Now just step back a bit and I'll see to the problem."

From my place in the crock I still can't see exactly what Sam's on about, but he's taking a hearty two-fingered dip of me and rubbing me into one of those nice clean rags. I'm tumbled about as Sam works me into the cool cotton with his strong hands. Then I feel myself running along the length of a long narrow shaft.

"Oooh," Master says. "I didn't know this was what you had in mind, Sam, or I would have suggested it much sooner."

"No use getting your hands soiled over a job that's best for me to see to, sir. You aught've said you were having a time of it--working it up and down on your own all these days as hard as it's been. And with the weather getting so hot now, you'd have gone and given yourself quite a turn, Mr. Frodo. My gaffer'd clop me if he caught the Master out in a sweat. Here's a chore as needs doing by the proper hands as they say."

"As they say, Sam…It's not that I can't handle a few labours on my own, but ahh…there it starts to go…my right arm was beginning to give me a frightful cramp."

Sam sets me aside with the cloth and the shaft groans and slides, working itself freer and easier. I'm getting slipperier and more heated as Sam throws his shoulder into it. And the Master's excitement is mounting as he sighs and claps his approval.

I like Sam. I like the feel of myself in his capable hands. It was Sam who skimmed my cream from the morning milking and set me in the kitchen in a deep bowl to warm and sour. It was Sam who dipped his finger into me to taste my readiness and fetched the churn to pour me in and set his lid and plunger to me in brisk even strokes. Up and down, he sang a churning song as he beat a rhythm and I came apart, clumping and congealing into fresh thick butter. Sam opened me up and scooped me away with the butter paddle, smacking me this way and that in a wide pan until all my fluids were purged and the buttermilk drained away. Then he washed me in cool clean water, pressing the heel of his hands against me until I grew hard and stiff. Sam salted me and tasted me for doneness and packed me in my little crock. Then he set me up in the cupboards by myself to settle down until the time came to help him with the morning cooking.

I popped and sizzled with the bacon, I melted as I was smeared on the hot steaming scones. Sam took secret little nibbles of me while waiting for the Master to finish with his bath and come eat me. But the bath took longer than expected and Sam had to leave me behind to go see about the situation. I can't say what went on, but Sam's hands smelled like lavender soap when he returned. He came right up to me and slid my lid open for a quick dip of his forefinger. He squeezed me in his fist until I melted and out the back door we went for a spell.

It would seem that Sam needs a bit of pumping and flushing himself from time to time and I was happy to help as a part of me went flying with Sam's own rising cream into the compost pile.

I will say this for my Sam--he likes to keep things neat and tidy.

"Here now, Mr. Frodo. Give that a pull and see how it feels."

I can hear the gush of fluid come forth from the working well-pump as the Master gets his hands on it.

"Well done, lad! I daresay that old crank shaft was in need of a go! Look how it flows! My, that's a marvellous sight. I'm feeling much relieved."

"My pleasure, Mr. Frodo. Now while I've got this crock out and handy, is there anything else needing a bit of work?"

"Well, now that you mention it…the window in my study has been protesting rather loudly of late. Perhaps a good application of your miraculous butter will do the trick."

"Let's see to it!" Sam says all excited-like, and off we go, two hobbits and a crock, back into the hole.

"It's a bit tight back in here, begging your pardon, sir. Do you think I might get up on the chair and lean over the desk to see to that noisome hinge?"

"Of course, Sam. Sorry for the trouble. I keep meaning to tidy up in here, but then I get busy at my desk in the afternoons, and more often than not, I find I can't tear myself from the view."

"The view, sir?"

If there's a view, I'm not privy to it. My lid's still on as I sit balanced on the windowsill where Sam's set me.

Master coughs. "Well…yes, the marigolds and sunlight on the…what are those lovely purple blossoms again?"

"The onions, sir?"

"Uh…yes. The onions. Lovely, if not in aroma, at least in colour."

"Yes, sir," Sam says as he steps up on the chair (from the sound of the wheels and the creaking of the knotty pine under Sam's handsome weight) and leans over the blotter. He takes another swipe of me in the second rag and I go oozing into this cold stubborn window hinge. I must say, I prefer a good solid shaft to this type of detail work, but I do my best.

"If you wouldn't mind pushing that chair in a bit, sir, so's I can get at the top hinge."

"Certainly, Sam," says Master odd-like as the chair rolls on the hardwood floor and hits the edge of the desk. My crock trembles as Sam goes flat down on the rosemauling.

"Oh! Sorry, lad! That was too close, wasn't it? I must do better to keep my eyes on your progress….Sam! You're bleeding!"

From the bit if me that's been smeared from the rag onto Sam's fingertips, I can feel a drop of wetness spreading on Sam's plump lower lip as he touches it, made plumper by contact with the windowsill. "It's not bad, Mr. Frodo. I just bit my…"

"Nonsense, Sam. Turn about while I see to it! Here, lend me that rag."

"Sir, you needn't…"

"Sam, I insist. I'm the one who got you into this position, after all. Now let's get this chair out of the way so I can have a better look."

Now that the rag that's been smeared with me is in the Master's fine fingers, I can feel him take me up to Sam's lip and dab here and there gently as if Sam were fine glass.

"Pity, that's going to swell. Oh, Sam. I'm so, so sorry….I…."

Things get very quiet for a while as the Master stops his tending and I hover near Sam's swelling lip. There's a good deal of breathing going on between them both that's blowing me cool on the rag until I'm dropped, forgotten to the floor.

The rag part of me is of no use in telling what's happening anymore, but if I'm not mistaken, from my crock I believe I hear the sounds of nibbling--like when Sam takes a tiny lick of me off the top of a scone with the very tip of his tongue and savours me in his mouth before he takes a hearty bite, moaning.

It must be so, because now there's quite a bit of moaning. Both Sam and Master must be sharing a bite of something together, though if memory serves, all the scones were eaten hours ago. Whatever they're enjoying, it sounds tasty as they lick and smack lips in pleasure, pressing themselves back into the desk, knocking it up against the wall.

Sam's hand comes up where he's a got a bit of me still on his thumb from the hinge oiling and a fine slick of me is getting spread on the Master's flushed cheek. Sam's stroking him here, soothing as the eating keeps going on, and before long, I'm going into the Master's thick curls as well, leaving a trace of myself on his fine eartip.

"Mmm," Master says all sleepy-like. "Sam, you've got butter on your hands."

"I do…" Sam murmurs as if he's not quite done licking something wonderful off the corner of his mouth. At least I think it's his mouth. It's wet and warm and slippery as his tongue runs over it.

"Let me taste you," Master says and at once I find Sam's thumb and myself firmly between the Master's lips. It gets real dark as I'm sucked into that moist wonderful place where the Master's tongue near cleans me right off of my Sam with each lick, humming with enjoyment.

Sam seems to enjoy this passing of the butter, too and reaches back to grab me, crock and all, off the windowsill.

Whump! My ceramic bottom hits the chair and it's a wonder I don't crack right down the middle as my lid is knocked to the floor and rolls under the couch. But I can't worry about that because Sam's got his strong fingers diving deep into me as I melt and part for him to scoop up a handful.

Before I realise it, I'm being applied to the Master's neck, that underside part where hobbits swallow and laugh. The Master gasps and Sam follows his slick swipe with an eager tongue. There's considerably more moaning than would be proper at table and I'm beginning to think food's got nothing to do with the hunger being expressed here between my Sam and his Master.

"Sam….Sam…." pants the Master. "Please lend me the crock."

I'm lifted and quite ruthlessly plundered by the Master's trembling fingers as he grabs a chunk of me to smear down my Sam's bared chest. I'm not sure when Sam undid his buttons, but they are certainly not an obstruction as the Master gets a good dollop of me squished into the silky hairs that adorn his work-hardened belly. This placement suits me just fine, but my habitat is short-lived as I'm quickly slurped up by the Master's salivating mouth. He laps and laps, cleaning me from that warm golden skin before he latches onto a slippery buttery nipple, suckling like a calf.

"S..sir," Sam stammers. "That's going to leave a stain if I don't…"

"…get out of these clothes. I agree, Sam. Very attentive of you…oh! Do make haste!"

There's a mad unscrambling of clothing that goes here and there about the floor and chairs and lamps as traces of me get spread by hands and tongues wider and wider--all the better to tell what exactly is happening.

Now there's two naked hobbits pressed up against the writing desk. The Master's got my Sam in quite a tight spot, indeed. He's all pressed against my Sam, hip to hip, arms about each other with nothing but butter in-between. I guess my fresh lightly salted flavour is having an effect as they can't seem to stop licking me off each other and plundering each other's mouths for more.

Although much of me has now been employed to good use, there's still not quite enough of me going around as small grunts of complaint begin to sound through all the happy noises. The Master's hips are sliding around between Sam's sprawled legs where he's backed up against the slant of the desk, taking the brunt of the force as they work together in an uneven rut. Sam is squirming to keep things on his toes, so to speak, but there's a grimace now and again. I can't say I blame him, chafing is not something I tolerate, either. Go ask the water pump.

Sam breaks away for a gasp of air. "Begging your pardon, sir, but I think we could do with bit more mess, if you take my meaning."

"Oh Sam…" cries the Master, grasping himself by the root. "Butter me."

Everything is a blur as several sets of fingers find their way into my pot, stirring me all up silly as I'm sloppily applied to roots, shoots, berries and buns. Master and Sam are industriously rubbing their flesh with me like they were steamy pork back--their buttered skin shines in the sunlight as I'm gluttonously consumed. Round plump basted bottoms are grasped as the hottest hardest skin I've ever felt since Sam took me out to the compost pile starts to duel it out in the cracks and crevices between without much of a hand-hold to speak of. The friction and pressure gets to me and I come undone, thinning and running down muscled straining thighs and dripping onto curly foot hair with each sloppy slam against the desk.

It's not long before Master slips in a puddle of me and two hot buttered hobbits go a-tumbling to the floor rug.

"Rug…not good…butter…aarg…hard to…scrub…oh, oh, oh…"

"Heirloom…oh, yes…Bilbo'd fry me…oh…more…more butter, Sam!"

I'm knocked to the floor and what's left of me is oozing out of my abused crock as an elbow (I can't say which anymore, I'm a bit scattered at present.) slides through me followed by a nose. All around me are sounds of hearty sucking and lapping and flailing arms and legs as the poor things try to work themselves out of (or into) this pickle.

"Can't…grab…anything…oh, dear…I'm …Sam! Keep rolling off….Please! Anything!"

It's all a blur but I do believe one of those nice hot hobbit shafts is heading into a very warm dark place where a tongue is making quick use of all the creaminess to get whose-ever throbbing sticky problem under control.

There's fingers knotting into curls, rougher ones this time, so I'm going to guess it's Sam that's got his head in the Master's lap. Silly Sam, that's no way to fix a clogged pump.

"Oh my Sam….my Sam…I'm bursting ….!"

Well, I'm mistaken. My Sam can fix anything. There's a cry from Master like he's discovered gold in his britches, followed by some generous swallowing on Sam's part. And then more lip-nibbling as butter gets spread between two tongues at once.

Master seems very pleased. He's quieter now at least where he's fallen half under Sam in a butter-slick on the floor.

There's some nose nuzzling and happy hobbit cooing until the Master's gooey hand finds another task to set itself on. It's Sam, my poor Sam, all puffed up fresh and slippery-hot with no oven to bake in.

"Oh, dear. Here's a job that needs doing," Master says, working Sam's shaft. "I've learned from you today that fixing this sort of problem is quite easy if you have the right tools," Master says as he rolls like a rolling pin over on his belly and spreads his legs to invite Sam to explore a whole new confection, relatively butter-free as yet, due to its seclusion.

"But, sir…I…?!"

"I've watched you work the butterchurn, Sam. I know you can. You've got…rhythm."

"I…uh…ohh…"

"Your pump is betraying you, Sam. It needs some easing. The very best kind a Master can offer. Now be a good lad and go fetch the crock."

There's not much left of me, just a dollop clinging to the lip. It's been a busy day for me to say the least and not at all what Sam and I originally planned for, I suppose, when he set me up in the cupboard, but a good run of it nevertheless. Still, I'm quite spent, like butter spread over too much bread. Or in this case, hobbits.

I give it my all as I melt evenly about Sam's index finger and thumb. The Master's waiting buns are eased apart and oooh, that is rather nice as I slide right on in where it's tight and hot and delicious.

It's dark in here, but oh there's no better place I've found to linger. I ache to be churned anew as Sam's perfect fingers leave me and there's just a little light shining in…And here comes my Sam, and he's set to the task, as they say, and wait!…there goes the light.…oh, my, that's so nice….mmmmph!

THE END

Exit notes: I've never churned butter in my life. I just pray that the sweet little old man who created the "How we make butter the old-fashioned way down here at Watson Farms" website can forgive me. What, oh, Hell is this way? Thanks.