Chapter 2
TWO
Istared at the wicker cock pointing out of Gran’s pantry.
Whisky cannot make a basket talk unless it could already talk before you drank the whisky.
My head swam. “That sounds exactly like something a whisky-induced hallucination would say.”
You are not hallucinating.
"And how do I know that's true? I'd say hearing a basket's voice in my head is a very clear sign of hallucination. The same goes for a basket growing a..."
Cock. Say it.
"An appendage."
The tip flexed.
I backed into the sink and grabbed my phone. Gran’s number was still at the top of the screen. I dialled but it went straight to voicemail.
“Hi, Gran. It’s me. Could you call me back? Your basket is...” I looked into the pantry. The wicker cock had turned in my direction. “Awake.”
I hung up and instantly regretted calling her. If this was all just an alcohol-induced dream - and the chances of that were close to a hundred per cent - I'd be very embarrassed in the morning.
She will not answer while she is playing darts.
“How do you know about the darts?”
She has played every Thursday for the past nine years.
I lowered the phone. “You know Gran?”
I know every MacRae who has kept me.
That didn’t make me feel better.
“What are you?”
The basket gave a dry creak. Several strands loosened around the kale root and stretched over the edge of the shelf as if reaching for me.
Fae.
I snort-laughed. “Of course you are.”
You do not believe me.
“You’re a talking basket with a vegetable penis. I’m struggling to believe any part of this.”
The vegetable was merely the offering. I improved it.
“You ate my kale?”
You fed it to me on the eve of Samhain. It was the traditional offering required to wake me.
“I put it in a basket because I thought that was better than throwing it away.”
And it woke me nonetheless.
One of the longer strands curled around the pantry shelf. The basket slid forwards, as if it was trying to walk.
“Wait!”
I rushed to catch it before it hit the floor. Both hands closed around the wicker sides, and a deep groan filled my head. It sounded like the basket was aroused.
I nearly dropped it. “What was that?”
You touched me.
“I touched you earlier!"
I was asleep earlier. Now I can feel you.
I sat him on the kitchen table and wiped my palms on my jeans. That felt silly. The wicker was dry and clean. I could still remember the groan, though. It had sounded like a man who hadn’t been touched in a very long time.
The cock remained angled towards me. Up close, I could see how hundreds of fine strands had wound together to make it. The surface looked smooth, although I wasn’t planning to test that with any sensitive body parts.
“Can you read my thoughts?”
I couldn't believe I was taking this seriously. That I actually entertained the idea that this basket was sentient.
No.
“Good.”
I can smell your arousal.
I folded my arms. “You don’t have a nose.”
I do not usually have a cock either. Samhain is full of surprises.
My face grew hot.
A thin piece of wicker lifted from his rim and reached towards me. I stepped back before it could touch my hand.
It stopped.
May I?
“May you what?”
Touch you.
“No.”
The strand withdrew at once and tucked itself into the side of the basket. No argument. No attempt to persuade me.
I was almost disappointed. I hadn't expected it to actually follow my commands, not after everything.
That should have been the end of it. I could have gone to bed, locked the pantry door and dealt with Gran in the morning, apologising to her for the drunken phone call. Instead, I stood in the kitchen staring at the basket.
“What did Gran mean when she said you’d bring me joy?”
What do you think she meant?
“Knowing Gran, possibly a lifetime supply of potatoes. Or a lucky dart.”
The cock flexed again. I pressed my legs together.
The longer I stared at it, the more aroused I became.
I'd looked at plenty of sex toys and none had ever made me feel like that.
I preferred the real deal, the man attached to the cock.
But here, it was attached to a basket. I rubbed the back of my neck.
This was all a bit too much. And my mind kept replaying the sound he'd made when I'd picked him up.
“If I touch you, do you feel it?”
Yes. Every strand belongs to me. Every weave, every braid.
I looked at the thick shape rising from the basket. “Even that?”
Especially that.
This was stupid. I knew it was stupid while I reached out.
My fingers brushed the tip. His groan made my knees weak.
I snatched my hand back. The wicker had been warm and completely smooth.
No rough edges. No splinters. Just a texture that I knew would feel amazing inside me, just like that dragon dildo I'd won in a monster smut competition a year ago.
It was hidden at the bottom of my underwear drawer where nobody would ever find it.
The thick wicker shaft bent towards me, following my retreating hand.
“Stay," I commanded.
It stopped. Interesting.
“Move to the left.”
It moved to the left.
“Right.”
It obeyed again.
I stepped closer and wrapped my hand around it. The wicker tightened beneath my palm. Another groan filled my head, louder this time. I could feel the shape growing harder inside my grip as new strands wound around the base.
“You really can feel that.”
Do it again.
He sounded desperate. Like someone who was yearning for even the smallest touch.
I stroked him slowly. His tip pushed into my palm, then pulled back. He was learning the rhythm, the way I touched him. I was having an effect on him. That thought sent a sharp bolt through my clit.
A slender strand rose from the basket, swirling gently in the air.
May I touch you now?
“Over my clothes.”
The strand reached across the gap between us and brushed the back of my hand first. It was much softer than I expected. Flexible too. It wound once around my wrist, loose enough that I could have slipped free. As if to show me the potential his wicker strands offered.
Then it travelled up my sleeve. I'd told him to stay over my clothes. I almost protested, but the touch was innocent enough. It was just my arm. Not anywhere near my intimate places.
I shivered as it stroked the inside of my elbow. He was taking his time.
The strand emerged from my sleeve and traced my collarbone. I kept my hand around his cock, stroking whenever he moved closer.
Another strand slid over my hip.
This time, I couldn't stop myself from protesting. “I said over my clothes.”
I remember.
It ran down the seam of my jeans and pressed between my legs.
I gripped the table with my free hand. The pressure landed directly against my clit.
“Bloody hell.”
You are very wet, Kathleen.
Hearing my name in that deep voice made it worse. His voice was chocolate and velvet, wood smoke and embers.
He rubbed his wicker tentacle over my jeans, using short, firm strokes. I spread my feet without thinking. The strand pressed harder.
“How do you know my name?”
It is written on the note.
I laughed despite myself. “I thought that was going to be something magical.”
I can invent something magical if you would prefer.
“No. I’ve had enough surprises.”
The wicker stilled between my legs. I almost complained.
Shall I stop?
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.
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.
“What do I call you?”
The kitchen stayed quiet for a long moment.
Names have power. Fae do not speak their names easily.
“Fine. I’ll call you Basket.”
I am not a basket.
“You very much look like a basket. You're the shape of a basket. You have a handle. You're made from wicker."
I am bound within the creel.
As if that made any sense. “Creel, then.”
He made a disgruntled creaking sound.
I smiled as I picked up my abandoned glass of water. “You should have told me your name.”
The thick wicker cock had not softened. It rose higher as I watched, strands moving beneath its smooth surface.
Would you like to discover why I made this?