The Lay of Tom Bombadil

by buttonbright

Pairing: Gandalf/Tom Bombadil

Rating: NC17

Summary: This is a rude, irreverent and satirical bit of fluff in which Gandalf seeks relief from the yellow-booted one.

Warning: If you want to see your favorite characters treated with respectful solemnity, please look elsewhere. Nobody gets respect here, and the M/M sex is earthy and explicit.

Gandalf was in a mood to get himself ploughed.

He'd only just managed to ditch the four hobbits - at last! There would have been no help from that quarter. Sam and Frodo had eyes only for each other, and Merry had just gone from mooning over Faramir to mooning over Nob. As for Pippin, he pursued most any bipedal female (available or otherwise) with deplorable glee.

In any case, Gandalf had long since found that hobbits made unsatisfactory playmates. Most of them cared more about food than they did about sex; or else they'd addled their tiny brains with too much pipeweed. Saruman used to joke about that, on the rare occasions when he joked at all (dead-orc jokes were more his speed - the sort of thing that began, "If you're unloading a cartful of dead orcs with a pitchfork," or "What's blackish-brown and has bad teeth," etc.). And the few hobbits Gandalf had contrived to seduce invariably turned out to be bottoms! No sooner had he finagled them out of their clothes than they flopped onto their bellies and waggled their rumps in the air. Gandalf himself was a confirmed bottom. It was most depressing.

Elves weren't much better. They had rutting seasons, not unlike the great mumakil that lived in the south - except that elvish rutting seasons occurred quite rarely, and with irksome unpredictability. If you hit it right there was all sorts of fun to be had. The rest of the time - nothing. More than once Gandalf had raced up the Greenway at the merest hint of a rumor - "They're screwing like rabbits in Rivendell!" - only to find that the commotion had died down just hours before he arrived. Vacuous creatures!

No, Men made the best lovers by far. Their libidos seemed never to shut down, and they were eminently distractable. They would postpone anything for a quick roll in the hay. And most of them took a practical view of gender. Any port in a storm, as the men of Dol Amroth liked to say. Best of all, at least three quarters of them were tops! One such, now long gone, had been Helm Hammerhand. He had earned his nickname in a highly refreshing manner. Gandalf missed him.

But here, between Bree and the Old Forest, there was yet another possibility - a problematic one, to be sure, and yet a thrilling one if all went well. Praying for better success than he'd had last time, Gandalf spurred his steed toward Tom Bombadil's house.

If nothing else, Bombadil was easy to find. Between his yellow-booted stomping and his incessant singing, he made more noise than an enraged oliphaunt. Gandalf heard an almighty splash as he entered the Forest, and from this he deduced that Tom was collecting lilies for his water-logged girlfriend.

Up the path hopped Bombadil, his apparel as always an affront to the eye. Gandalf waved dispiritedly. He knew he was in for a rough time.

Tom burst straightaway into song.

"Ran-tan, Wizard-Man! Your light is a bright one. Once you had an old grey robe. Now you've got a white one!"

"Very observant," said Gandalf. "Hullo, old fellow. How are you keeping?"

Bombadil laughed. "Just about the same, my friend, to hear the Willow tell it. But that's not what you've come for - asking after my health. Gandalf's got a hankering - old Tom can smell it."

"Nothing slips by you," Gandalf replied. "Without any further ado, then, would you mind playing the top for an old friend?"

"Whoa, there!" cried Tom, hopping back a pace. "Wait one minute. What are you a-thinking?

Ask for honey, ask for bread, Tom has always got 'em. But don't you ask for topping, sir. You know Tom's a bottom!"

"There, there," Gandalf said soothingly. "I know what you like and I'm here to make you a fair deal. Plough me with that remarkable dick of yours, just this once, and then I'll ride you till your wife comes home."

"Ride him all night if you want to," said a woman's voice. At the same moment, a familiar aroma reached Gandalf's nostrils. He recognized it at once: patchouli oil.

"Goldberry," he said, turning around. "Lovely to see you again."

"Likewise," said Goldberry. For indeed it was she, dressed in a damp scrap of greenish fabric that left little to the imagination. Her face was grubby and the flowers in her hair had clearly seen better days. "Tom, honey, it sounds to me like a fair offer," she said. "We both know that once you get started, you love sticking your hardwood up somebody else's knothole."

Tom didn't mean to give in quite yet. He sang,

"Grrr, Tom, pervy Tom, though his dick's a big one, You should try his hidey-hole - better that than dig one!"

But his conviction seemed to be wavering and Goldberry knew it. "Anyway," she went on, seating herself on a patch of grass and stretching out her hairy legs. "It's time for a change. Only today, Old Man Willow complained to me, 'Tom just can't get enough. He's wearing the bark off my branches!' Give the poor thing a break, won't you, sweetpea? He's not as young as he used to be."

"Willow Man, Willow Man (sang Tom), knows the way to thank me. When I'm bad, the rough old lad is always there to spank me!"

"Fine!" snapped Goldberry, throwing up her hands. "Have it your own way. But if you won't play fair, neither will I. I'm going to hide your dildo collection for a whole year. Then you'll sing a different tune!"

"Don't do that!" yelped Tom, so alarmed that he forgot to rhyme. "I promise I'll diddle the Wizard - on condition that you stay and watch!"

"I wouldn't miss it," Goldberry purred. "Off with your pants, love. Boots, too."

But Tom refused to take off his yellow boots. Without them, he swore loudly, he'd remain as flaccid as a water weed. "Oh! That reminds me!" he said. "Tom's got a job to do, before he plants his pecker. Help the Wizard out of his clothes, won't you, my lady? I'll be back in a moment." And with that he dashed off into the trees.

Gandalf groaned.

"Don't worry," said Goldberry, dragging the Wizard's white robe over his head and tossing it aside in an untidy heap. "It's just Tom's newest obsession. Or maybe it's an old obsession that finally got to him. You'll see what I mean."

"That's exactly what I'm afraid of," sighed Gandalf, wondering if he might not have had better luck with Barliman Butterbur. He couldn't imagine what fresh humiliation lay in wait for him.

Tom came back at last - with his arms full of long, lank willow fronds! Their purpose seemed unclear, but he and Goldberry set to work draping the fronds over Gandalf's head and shoulders, dozens and dozens of them, till they hung in clammy tendrils down the his bare back and chest. At first the Wizard was too stunned to object. Finally, though, he managed to ask them just what they thought they were doing.

"Old Man Willow, he's my pretty fellow (sang Bombadil). Wear his weedy waistcoat and Tom will make you bellow!"

A willow fetish? Had it come to this?

Under pounds and pounds of greenery, Gandalf nearly despaired. He would have bolted if Goldberry hadn't chosen this moment - ah, at last! - to unbuckle Tom's belt and yank his trousers down. Gandalf peered through the leaves that covered his face. Was Bombadil still the prodigy of the ages? Did his extraordinary endowment remain unimpaired? Nothing else could make this revolting scene worthwhile.

For in one respect, Tom Bombadil stood alone and unmatched among the denizens of Middle-Earth. He possessed a prehensile dick.

The organ's nine inches made it exceptionally long. But its true claim to fame was the uncanny way in which it moved about, rather like a drowsy but determined snake. It was moving right now. The large, bulbous head, poking through the front of Tom's shirt, might almost have been seeking a mate as it turned inquisitively this way and that. It had a snake's power to fascinate, too. The longer Gandalf looked at it, the more he fell under its spell. But what he really wanted was to get it up his rear, so he hastily picked a few stalks of the wild lubenas that bloomed at the Forest's edge.

"Here!" he said, giving the stalks to Tom. "Let's put that dick of yours to work!"

But Bombadil still wasn't ready. "Tom's got his song to sing!" he trumpeted. "Hear what I'm a-saying: There's no ridin' till we widen holes that start out tiny. Let my song be loud and strong, to open up your hiney!"

"It'll take more than a song to do that," muttered Gandalf, bracing his hands against a tree. "Fingers, Tom - remember? You must use your - OUCH!"

Tom, for once, was way ahead of him - a little too far ahead, perhaps. His short, fat finger had plunged straight in without any of the usual niceties.

"In and out, roundabout, what's the point of lingering? When your bunghole needs a plug, Tom will come a-fingering!" the old fellow sang lustily. And with his free hand he gave the Wizard's rear a resounding spank.

"Ouch!" Gandalf said again. This was a different sort of "ouch," however, for he actually liked a good spanking when he could get it. Moreover, Bombadil's index finger was gradually becoming a more welcome intruder than it had been right at first. Slippery with lubenas, it wriggled and twisted in a delightful manner. More spanking followed, and even a lash or two from a willow frond. Bombadil seemed wonderfully worked up. Perhaps the willow fetish would be a good thing after all.

"Tom, honey, I think the geezer's ready for another finger." Unaccountably, Goldberry's voice seemed to be coming from somewhere near the ground.

Gandalf looked down. Goldberry was lying on her back with her head positioned directly under his crotch, apparently monitoring Tom's manual technique. "See there," she went on, pointing. "You've already got plenty of room in that hole. Try the middle finger and see what happens."

"Slowly!" Gandalf barked - too late, as it turned out. "OUCH!" he yelled again. Tom had drowned out all objections by singing,

"One finger, two finger, up to the knuckle. I'll tickle your diddly bits till your knees buckle!"

Diddly bits? Gandalf knew better than to get his hopes up. Tom's fingers were too short and stubby to reach a man's sweet spot, as sad experience had proved. It would take the prehensile dick to do that. Nevertheless, a good poke was a good poke, and Gandalf resolved to enjoy it.

"Oohh!" said Goldberry. "Look at the hair on Gandalf's balls. It sticks out so straight! Why, it looks just like grass on a tussock! It's the funniest thing I've ever seen. Gandalf, has it always been like that?"

The Wizard moaned. This was intolerable. Couldn't he enjoy himself in peace?

"Gandalf, did you hear me? I asked you why your ball hair is so straight?"

"If you must know," he replied with dignity, "I used to have curly hair till King Thengel talked me into shaving it off. He liked a nice smooth ball sac. Ever since then it's grown in straight. There, are you happy now?"

"Tom is never going to shave his balls," Goldberry decided. "We like curls best. Don't we, honey?"

"Hey, Tom, say, Tom, don't be in a hurry! Pink is your pucker, lad, and your balls are furry!" sang Tom. Gandalf wondered how much more of this he could endure before he went quite mad.

"I think we're ready for the main event," he called over his shoulder.

"More lubenas!" shouted Tom, and Goldberry scrambled up to fetch it. Further songs accompanied the greasing of the celebrated organ. Soon all was in readiness, and the Wizard hoped devoutly that his troubles would soon be forgotten.

Ah! The first thrust! Up his narrow channel squirmed the Bombadilian prodigy, hard as a tree branch and supple as an eel. Or perhaps, Gandalf thought approvingly, it most resembled a pirate; for some primal instinct led it unerringly toward his buried treasure. The thrill when it arrived - oohh! - almost allowed him to ignore Tom's latest bit of rhyme.

"Deep drilling, keep drilling, flourish it and flaunt it! Keep your secrets, Wizard-Man. Tom knows how you want it!"

Indeed Tom did - or his dick did, which amounted to much the same thing. And as Goldberry had foreseen, Bombadil was enjoying himself prodigiously. The ho's and hey's came thick and fast, booming among the trees like thunder.

Gandalf was past minding. He'd salvaged a bit of lubenas for his own hands and was wanking away unseen behind his willowy curtain. He knew he oughtn't - after all, he'd promised to ride Tom afterward - but temptation overpowered his scruples and he pumped his pud with unabashed gusto.

The matter was already well in hand when Goldberry began to suspect. She had to peer through several layers of willow fronds to make sure.

"Tom, honey," she said, tapping her husband's arm. "Don't look now, but your ride may be leaving without you."

"Whoa there, ho there, what's that happy humming?" Wizard-Man's got work to do. He'd better not be coming!" sang Tom, and froze in mid-thrust.

But his piratical prick betrayed him. It kept right on polishing Gandalf's golden nuggets, and the next sound they all heard was the spatter of wizardly come on fallen leaves.

"Yes!" shouted Gandalf. "Yes, yes, oh, yes!"

Tom, leaning to one side, regarded the glistening drops with tragic disbelief. From the depths of his soul he wailed,

"Tom knew what his bargain was. The Wizard knows what his is. A deal's a deal, but what a heel! For there the traitor's jizz is!"

"That was a low trick, Gandalf," Goldberry scolded. "We trusted you! Well, you won't get another crack at my husband's dick. Next time, find somebody else to poke your old behind!"

"I can live with that," grinned Gandalf, picking willow leaves out of his hair. He obviously felt much better. "I'll be off to the West in two or three years. Better get out the dildos, Goldberry. Looks like Tom's going to need them."