Disclaimer: Tolkien... wouldn’t want this bit!
Lolling back on rough blankets in the fire-warmed room, eyes commanded to remain closed, Boromir drifted into languid reverie as smooth hands skated over his skin. Muscular hands, from reining-in horses, smoothed and dried by friction with leather, lightly calloused from handling buckles and armour... they teased his skin deliciously. The soft voice reminded him to keep his eyes closed.
Boromir concentrated on the hands that kneaded his bare feet, remembering as a child stroking kidskin leather, white, soft, smooth, pliant... for fine gloves they said... Now the kidskin hands snaked up his thighs, cupped him closely, and he gasped.