Page 9 of Basket Case

Then the strand slid between my bare thighs.

I forgot where I was.

It stroked along my pussy, gathering my wetness before circling my clit. The wicker was warm now. It grew wet as it moved against me. It wouldn't need lube at this rate.

I braced both hands on the table. The basket shuffled backwards, leaving a clear strip of wood.

Sit, he said inside my head.

I didn't even think about it. I climbed onto the edge of the table and opened my legs.

Thin strands wrapped around my thighs. They held them apart without digging into my skin. When I tested the grip, they loosened enough to let me move.

“I didn’t ask you to let go.”

I almost heard him chuckle. The wicker tightened again.

Tell me what you want.

I reached for his cock and wrapped both hands around the thick shaft.

“Make me come.”

The strand on my clit moved faster.

I stroked him in the same rhythm. His cock thrust through my hands, the wicker flexing and changing shape as I gripped it. He felt alive. Every pass of my fingers dragged another rough groan from him.

A second strand joined the first. It stroked the entrance of my pussy, spreading my wetness around without pushing inside. He was teasing me and I was going crazy.

“More pressure!”

He obeyed.

I rocked against the wicker. The strands around my thighs held me open while the one on my clit worked faster. There was no fumbling and no need to guide him twice. He followed every sound I made. He was a fast learner. The best.

My fingers tightened around his cock.

Kathleen.

The way he said my name finished me.

My pussy clenched as the orgasm hit. I cried out and pushed against the strands, riding them while they rubbed my clit through every pulse. He kept the pressure exactly where I needed it until my legs began to shake. I rode the orgasm, breathing through it, trembling and shaking all over.

When I could finally speak again, I simply said, “Stop.”

Everything stopped.

The restraints fell away from my thighs. The strand between my legs withdrew and rested against the edge of the basket, curling up as if ready to become part of the weave again.

I sat on Gran’s kitchen table with my jeans around one ankle and stared at the wicker cock still gripped between my hands.

I had just come on a basket.

Worse, it had been good.

Maybe this was the time to question my sanity. Or ask him for another round.

I realised I didn't even know his name. If he had one.