****Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these 
characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line 
Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to 
spend their time. 

****

And so the next few weeks went by. Frodo usually had a visitor six nights out of 
seven, and by the end of the third week, he began to lose some of his 
awkwardness around the men. Khalil was a frequent customer, although he never 
seemed to want anything more than pleasuring with hands and mouth. Teddy showed 
up again, Frodo was disappointed to see, and another man, oddly named Scout, 
did. He was a sneaky guy who confessed to Frodo one evening that Thistleback was 
involved in something very unlawful---though he wouldn’t say what it was. 

Frodo also found out, however, that Khalil was involved in business with 
Thistleback, for one evening the man’s tongue had loosened due to his ardor and 
too much good wine and he’d told Frodo about a certain field, somewhere far from 
the house, in which Thistleback grew tobacco that wasn’t quite like the rest. 
This tobacco was stronger, and smoking it would make others feel lightheaded and 
carefree. Frodo wondered if he ought to mention this to someone, but he feared 
for his life if he did. 

After one particularly vigorous evening with Teddy, Frodo found himself none too 
keen on disrobing for his usual posing session with Galel. The hobbit found he 
had marks on his neck from the man’s mouth and when he looked at his backside in 
the full-length mirror in his plush room, he could see that his buttocks were 
lightly bruised as well. 

Unfortunately, they had finished the first painting in which Frodo posed sitting 
on the stool and had moved on to Frodo lying on his stomach on the blue velvet, 
his chin propped up on an elbow. It was an uncomfortable pose and he couldn’t 
hold it for very long without his forearm growing numb, so he and Galel took 
frequent breaks. 

It was during a small break, as Frodo stood and stretched his achy muscles, that 
Galel spoke. “Frodo . . . I’m not blind to what you’re doing here nights, seeing 
as how I know the workings of Thistleback. If ever anyone recognized a cash cow 
when they see one, it’s that man. I just want you to be careful and remember 
that some men will take advantage.”

“I know. I am careful.”

Galel looked skeptical. “And some men will try to hurt you---badly. The bruises 
on your backside should be evidence enough.” Sighing, Galel came over and knelt 
in front of the hobbit. “Look, Frodo, I want nothing more than to keep painting 
you, because it’s earning me a good living, but I consider you a friend, and let 
me just say, men---and women too---will go to great lengths to have you. 
Dangerous lengths. You’d do far better to go back home to your Shire and live.”

“Maybe someday,” Frodo said softly, his head down. “There is nothing for me 
there now.”

“Well, take just one piece of advice from me then. Stay away from the bad ones, 
hear? I know for a fact Wulf has taken a shine to you, but run away before you 
let him touch you. He’s diseased, Frodo . . . bad diseased, from being so free 
with his body, and if you let him touch you in that way, you’ll catch it. Do you 
understand?”

“Yes. But maybe he won’t ever seek me out.”

Galel gave a snort. “There is little chance of that. Now, let us get back to our 
painting.”

****

“Until next week, friend Frodo,” Khalil said, rising from the bed with one 
gesture and sweeping out of the room. Frodo smiled, settling back in bed, 
exhausted. Khalil had been coming to him twice a week lately, and though not in 
love with the man, Frodo found him to be a considerate, gentle lover and looked 
forward to his visits, for Khalil made Frodo feel cherished.

Some of the others hadn’t. There was Dillim and Torl---Torl had been positively 
violent, and though he hadn’t entered Frodo before the hobbit was ready, he’d 
left Frodo so sore he walked bow-legged for days. There was also one very 
handsome man---from the far country of Rohan, Frodo learned---who had stopped by 
for one evening, and the hobbit found himself wishing the flaxen-haired 
gentleman would call on him again. 

Now, he glanced at the door Khalil had just closed and hoped there would be no 
more that night, for he was tired . . . and a cold supper sat---never forgotten, 
just delayed---on his nightstand nearby. Claudia had brought it up---a thick 
wedge of shepherd’s pie, a crock of cheesy soup, crusty bread, and pecan pie. 
Frodo knew she snuck much more food up to him than she was allowed, and that if 
Thistleback found out, she would have been severely punished. 

He went to go wash and then climbed back in bed between the covers, naked, 
picking up his plate and taking a bite of the pie as he savored the rich sauce 
even when cold. 

“I see you are fed well, halfling . . . payment for the hard work you do around 
here?”

Even though he was growing used to strangers showing up, Frodo barely stifled a 
yelp. But the next moment a large hand clamped over his mouth even as his pie 
slid off into his lap. “Do not scream,” said a low voice. “You do not want 
Thistleback to know I am here, trust me.”

Frodo nodded and the hand slid off his face. Picking his pie up, the hobbit 
settled back in bed, pulling his sheets up to cover himself as he looked up to 
see who had entered so rudely. 

That ranger. Strider. The one who had questioned him at Galel’s and given no 
quarter . . . the one who did not trust Frodo. 

“Why are you here?” the hobbit hissed. “And how did you get in here?” He jerked 
his head toward the door, which he would surely have heard opening. 

The ranger laughed grimly, then grabbed a chair from the corner of the room and 
slid it close the bed, straddling it and folding his arms across its back. At 
his hip, his sword hung, and Frodo could see the gleam of other weapons under 
the man’s coat as he moved. 

“I am certainly not here to bed you like the others, and I came in through that 
way.” Strider jerked his head, and Frodo followed it to see that his window was 
partially open, the curtains swaying gently with the evening breeze. Even from 
where he was at, the hobbit could hear the sounds of men working the fields, for 
it never stopped. “I can enter where I please without being seen or heard, 
especially by a hobbit engrossed with a meal.” He gazed around the room. “You 
seem to have quite the easy life here, compared to others in this place.”

“What do you want of me?” Frodo asked tiredly, wishing this man would just 
leave. If he were not so frightening, Frodo thought he might find this Strider 
to be an interesting potential customer . . . but his attitude indicated he was 
not there for pleasure. 

“Let us be honest with each other, Master Banks, is it again? I’m aware that you 
know of the existence of the back plot and the unlawful plants being grown 
there. You live here and must see a good bit of coming and going.” Strider 
leaned forward, shifting his legs, and Frodo tried to keep his eyes away from 
the man’s powerful thighs and thoughts of what this ranger could do to him if he 
refused to answer questions. 

“The . . . the what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Frodo feared the 
flush in his cheeks would give him away. 

“Why do I think you are lying? He is capitalizing on your looks to draw 
customers in, apparently, and you are going along with it willingly because of a 
soft bed and,” he jerked his head toward Frodo’s plate, “the satisfaction of a 
hobbit appetite.”

“I don’t pay attention to Thistleback’s business dealings,” Frodo said heatedly. 
“Now if you will please leave, before I call---”

Strider leaned forward, and his eyes bore into Frodo, seeming to take in the 
hobbit’s nakedness under the covers. “I see you are very interested in your 
meal, but if you do not want to find yourself in the custody of the law I 
suggest you tell me exactly who has been coming and going from this house.”

“I know nothing.” 

“I do not believe you. Has Thistleback already recruited you to smuggle this 
substance into the Shire? To give it to your unsuspecting, innocent relatives 
until they are begging for more and half senseless? Is that it? Perhaps you do 
this work in exchange for a night off from your usual duties?”

Unable to stop himself, and before he was quite aware what was happening, Frodo 
reached out and slapped the man soundly across the face. Strider recoiled, 
shocked, and a moment later, realizing what he’d done, Frodo scrambled backward 
on the bed, well out of the ranger’s reach. 

Rubbing his now-red jaw, Strider stood, roughly pushing his chair back into its 
usual position, and Frodo recoiled, instinctively covering his face. He’d asked 
for it now---this mean man would probably beat him to within an inch of his 
life, law or no law. 

“You are very stupid, Master Banks.” 

Well, of course he was stupid---a slap like that to Thistleback would likely 
have landed Frodo in bed for a few days, barely able to move. And this ranger, 
with his weapons and swords . . . he’d probably just as soon slit Frodo’s throat 
as look at him. Turning large eyes to Strider, he finally found his voice. 

“Go ahead . . . do whatever you will to me . . . I don’t even care.”

Strider leaned forward and gazed at the deep bruise on Frodo’s throat---a bruise 
made by a large mouth. Frodo recoiled even more, and the man shook his head, 
sighing. “You are stupid because you see me as the enemy and not Thistleback or 
what could happen to you if you continue this way. As for me, I am leaving now. 
Despite what you might have encountered with other men, I don’t strike 
halflings---even when they deserve to have some sense knocked into them. Good 
night.”

Crossing the room quickly, Strider opened the window further and let himself 
out.

To be continued