Page 8 of Basket Case

I looked at the basket. It had no face, but every loose strand had gone motionless while he waited.

“No. Keep going.”

Say please.

I pressed my lips tightly together. He stopped moving. Fuck.

"Please," I muttered.

Good girl.

Fireworks went off in my brain. He shouldn't be able to have that kind of effect on me. He was a basket, for goodness’ sake. I was getting off on a wicker basket praising me.

He resumed his work. The strand moved faster, rubbing my clit through two layers of fabric. My jeans had become uncomfortable, trapping the wet heat between my legs.

I stroked his cock harder. He groaned again, and several strands shuddered loose from the basket.

One curled around my other wrist. Another wound gently around my thigh.

I stopped touching him.

The wicker froze. I wanted to groan with frustration. That hadn't been the plan.

It was time to set some ground rules.

“Nothing inside me without permission.”

Nothing.

“And if I say stop, you stop.”

Always.

I pulled against the strand around my wrist. It loosened immediately.

How do you feel about restraints?

My mouth watered. "I'm not sure."

Then it shall be my pleasure to introduce you to the joys of wicker bondage.

It was getting very hard to think straight.

“Can you undo my jeans?”

The button popped open before I finished the question.

“Someone’s eager.”

You have no idea.

The zip slid down. A strand hooked into the waistband and waited. I could still change my mind.

I didn’t.

“Go on.”

The wicker tugged my jeans and knickers over my hips. I helped, pushing them down far enough to step out of them. Standing half naked in Gran’s kitchen brought me close to regaining my common sense. Maybe we should take this to the bedroom. Or stop this mad fantasy altogether.