I Will Fix It - A Wicker Fan Story
Quinn did a Wicker-themed story contest and while my story was not picked, I still quite like it. So here it is.
Why the hell was he doing this?
Eric stared at the misplaced collection of odds and ends laid out in front of him. And then at his blindfolded girlfriend, who was practically vibrating with excitement. Oh, yeah, that was why he was sitting at the foot of their bed, trying to one-handedly tie placemats to his biceps and forearms.
Ava.
He bit back a sigh as he tightened the knots with his teeth. She’d been obsessed with the Wicker movie. Yeah, that Wicker movie. For months, she’d been gaspingly, gigglingly, foot-kickingly fascinated with the film. She’d greedily gobbled up any clips and trailers and interviews she could find on the internet, saving her favorites on her phone to watch over and over. She’d pre-ordered, then promptly devoured, the story the movie was based on. By the time they’d actually seen the movie, he couldn’t believe she wasn’t already tired of the whole thing. Yet, here she was, more than a week later, still utterly captivated by it.
Eric had thought the movie was… good, he guessed. Good acting. Well written and shot. Like a literal fairy tale come to life. He was sure it’d go on to sweep the award season. God knew it was doing numbers at the box office. But it wasn’t, you know, his thing.
But it was hers. Ava was a quintessential Ren Faire girl. If given the chance, she would wear pastel face paint and fairy wings everywhere every day. Her closet consisted basically of a never-ending rainbow of peasant dresses and corsets. She’d never met a pair of lace-up boots or a hooded cloak that she didn’t immediately fall in love with.
Until lately.
Two months ago, she’d not only been denied a promotion she more than deserved at her job, she’d been put on a performance improvement plan. Not because she wasn’t already doing the work of three people — two of which would probably be paid more than her to sit in their corner offices overseeing people like Ava who did the actual work — but because she didn’t fit into the company’s unspoken yet strictly dictated office culture. As if wearing ribbons in her hair and glitter on her cheeks — and looking damned good doing it, if you asked Eric — somehow made her less productive.
So she’d changed. Took her positively giddy mother’s offer to give her a corporate makeover, so she could present as the good, little office drone it seemed everyone expected her to be. For two months, Eric had watched his wonderfully whimsical girlfriend wake up and walk past all the flowy, romantic clothes and accessories she loved, to dress in boxy, bland blazers and flat shoes. For two months, he’d watched her come home looking weighed down and miserable as she sacrificed more and more parts of herself for the sake of some stuffy suit’s sense of professionalism.
And he hated it.
So he’d come up with this… absolutely absurd and possibly foolhardy plan to roleplay the Wicker Husband with her. For her. Because he knew she’d love it and she was always down to do things like this for him. She was always wearing sexy lingerie and costumes for him. Always eager to try out and indulge in just about any fantasy he confessed to her. What kind of boyfriend would he be, if he wasn’t as willing to do the same for her. And, if it made her happy, well then, he was happy to do it.
He just wished hers weren’t quite so… scratchy. He looked down at the woven rattan placemats now wrapped around his shoulders, chest, and arms before slipping on the plaited pleather driving gloves he’d spent hours scouring the internet to find. The only pair he could find with the right weave pattern he wanted at a price he was willing to pay were an absolutely obnoxious shade of muddy orange. Not that it mattered, since he was the only one looking at them. He wrinkled his nose at himself. At the whole scenario, really.
He didn’t get how this was what turned Ava on. She couldn’t even see him, not with her eyes closed behind the cloth tied around her head. Which was probably for the best. He felt ridiculous. He couldn’t believe that he was about to playact some pseudo-medieval, romantasy version of Fifty Shades of—
“Hey,” she said, catching his attention as she stood nervously by their bed, “you okay?”
He shook his head and adjusted the palm green placemats strapped over his torso like discounted IKEA hockey pads. “Yeah.” He could do this. “Yeah, I’m fine.” For her, to bring her spark back, he would. “How about you?”
“Me?” She let out a laugh before saying in her best Cockney accent, “I’m more than ready to climb my timber knight.”
Eric snickered. He couldn’t help it. God, Ava was perfect. Playful and funny, she had this way of making anything — even this awkwardly strange situation — feel like a game or an adventure they were embarking on and enjoying together. She made him want to try, to do whatever he could to join in on her fun. So, holding tight to that thought, Eric took a steadying breath before lowering and slowing his speech to mimic the Wicker Husband. “Then I’d best take my bride to bed.” He grinned at her gasp when he gripped her wrist and tugged her closer to him.
“Oh my God, your hands,” she squealed as he ran his palm up her wrist gingerly, letting her feel the gloves’ ridged texture.
He smirked as her forehead scrunched and her sightless eyes stared in confused amusement right where the slightly stiff pleather was caressing her. “Do you enjoy my touch, Fisherwoman?” Eric asked, still stroking her forearm softly before pulling her into his embrace. It was weird, feeling the sweet give of her limb through the gloves but not the silken softness of her skin revealed by the buttoned cuffs of her primly professional three-quarter sleeves. It felt like he was touching her differently, experiencing Ava in a way that, even after all the time they’d been together, he hadn’t before. He urged her nearer. “Because I certainly enjoy the feel of you.”
“Oh my God,” she gasped as she laid her hands on his placemat-padded shoulders, her mouth agape. “You’re good at this.”
Eric puffed his chest up proudly as her curious fingers explored his body’s new rugged grain. He was glad she thought so. While he loved how eccentric Ava’s style was, Eric was a basic tshirt and jeans kind of guy. He didn’t understand pattern mixing, couldn’t tell the benefits of one kind of fabric or style over another. Hell, most days, he was lucky if his socks were clean and matched. So to say he was out of his element in this strange scarecrow-looking getup was an understatement.
Thank God he’d gone to see the movie with her, enabling him to figure out what to say and how. He’d even snuck a peek at her copy of the story, jotting down passages to quote or riff off later. He had done his homework, all in the hope that he’d be ready come test time.
And, judging by the way Ava’s breath had picked up, her chest fluttering enticingly with each breathless, giddy pant, his prep was paying off. The pressure of her touch through the rattan was… interesting. Almost thrilling. Transforming the familiar feel of her hands on him into something strange, unknown. Exciting. Especially the bolder her hands became, stroking along the sturdy shelf of his shoulders and the firm frame of his chest. Her mouth parted prettily as she wet her lips, leaving them with a sweet, slick sheen. Oh, yeah, Ava was getting into this.
Which made it infinitely easier to give himself permission to as well, slipping more comfortably into the role she’d given him. He trailed his hand up her arm, over her shoulder, and along her shirt’s stiff collar, letting his thumb dip beneath the carefully ironed cloth to stroke her throat. Watching her tremble under his glove-roughened touch, he placed his other hand at her hip, letting his fingers spread possessively wide over her pressed slacks. He leaned in to whisper low words against her skin, “I’m simply doing what I was created to do.” He watched her bend, back bowing beautifully, into his touch. He slid his hand over her crisp, white work shirt, splaying his fingers along her arching spine, and held her reverently as an offering. “Soft, delicate, and so sweet, you were made to be worshipped.” He cupped her face as she let herself be molded by him, as she all but melted into him. “And I was built to adore you.”
She shook her head, his fearlessly fairycore girlfriend suddenly unsure. “I’m not.”
Eric furrowed his brow. She was. But, after months of having damned near everyone in her life try to change and shrink her, yeah, he’d imagine it was hard to feel good about herself. He knew that part of the reason Ava loved Wicker as much as she did was that she saw herself in the Fisherwoman. Ava was special. Unique. Different. Always had been. And, in a world that valued conformity and playing by strict, socially structured rules, Ava often had a hard time navigating through it. Had an even harder time understanding why she had to.
And, frankly, so did Eric. “You are beautiful,” he told her. In whatever she wore, but especially when she wore what she wanted to. When the effervescence of her soul was given the chance to shine as she draped it over her body like decoration. When she walked through the world with her passion on display without giving a flying fuck what anyone else thought about it.
Color flushed her cheeks and she turned her head away slightly as though, even if lately she’d found that hard to believe, it was nice to hear his clear conviction. He would tell her every second of every day, if just to see the shy smile currently curling her lips. She cocked her head playfully before saying in her truly atrocious accent, “But I smell.”
He bit back a laugh as he lifted her sleeve so he could run the satiny length of her arm along his face, inhaling deeply of her. Ava always smelled amazing, like flowers, freshly picked fruit, and some completely inexplicable scent that was exclusively and deliciously hers.
But that wasn’t what she wanted to hear right now. Right now, Ava wasn’t herself. Eric wasn’t himself. In her fantasy that he was helping to create, she was the Fisherwoman and he was her Wicker Husband. What would he tell her at this moment? If this sculpted man was taking in his first woman, his wife, his reason for being, for the first time, what would that be like?
Eric shut his eyes and breathed deep. “You smell of salt and wilderness. Like freedom and home.” He filled his lungs with Ava, even as his mind filled out the scene between them. If Ava was the first woman Eric had ever seen, touched, known, would he look at her differently? Would he feel the same way about her? Would he be able to recognize how special she was more or less because of it?
Eric had dated before. Had even loved before Ava. But she was the first person he’d wanted to share his whole self with, unfiltered and unmasked. She was the first person whom he craved that kind of realness from in return. He wanted her most unvarnished self, the version of herself that she was sure no one could love. And he wanted to cherish every inch, every hidden nook and uncovered cranny. He could spend the rest of his days discovering every side of her and never get enough. Hell, who else, besides this woman, would he willingly put in this much effort for — would look, act, and feel as much of a fool for — just to see her smile?
Ava might not be the first woman Eric had ever met but, here, in this room, in his soul, she was the only one that mattered. He let out a rough sound of satisfaction as he pressed his nose to her wrist and swore he could feel her pulse race. “Right now, you smell like heat and need.” His tongue flicked out to taste her as his voice lowered even further. “You smell like you’re mine.”
“Holy fuck,” Ava whispered in her normal voice as she pressed her other hand against her mouth in titillated surprise.
Eric hid his own chuckle against her skin. “What was that, Fisherwoman?”
“Nothing,” Ava squeaked before coughing and continuing on. “My, uh, hands are rough and dirty.”
He nibbled at the edge of her palm, feeling her fingers tangle with his. Like any thrift store, Ren Faire baddie worth her salt, Ava more often than not sewed and crafted her own clothes. Made or altered her own bags and hats and jewelry. She knew how to knit and crochet and embroider. He’d seen her wood carve and even solder for the sake of her aesthetics. Which often left her slender, elegant hands rough and covered in paint and glue, in cuts and knicks, or even in burns and bruises. Her mother was constantly on her about her unmanicured nails and lack of a skincare routine. Scolding her for wasting her life and destroying her body on childish hobbies that Ava ought to have outgrown by now. But Ava was a woman for whom her passion demanded as much from her as she did from it. And was rewarded in kind. Every time.
Eric pressed her palm to his lips. “These hands are perfection. Nimble. Capable.” They were damned near magical, alchemically creating art from nothing. He turned her hand, kissing the work-toughened tips of her fingers. “Each callous, each scar, is proof of a life lived. And, when you touch me, I would rather feel that fierce friction, the rough press of your love, upon me than any soft, delicate, insubstantial brush of another.”
When Ava was quiet for a moment too long, Eric searched her half-covered face, worried that maybe he’d said the wrong thing. Had he messed up? Said too much? Not enough? While, yes, he’d rehearsed a fair bit beforehand to roleplay the film right now, none of the words he’d said felt fake. He might be dressed up as a piecemeal, sale-priced Wicker Husband, was certainly scratching the hell out of his throat to sound like him, but those words were his. Fancier than he’d normally speak, but they were his all the same. Had that — had he — ruined everything?
Ava swallowed hard and shrugged a little woodenly in her rigid, constricting, corporately acceptable clothes. In a small voice, she said, “I’m…” She shook her head, hearing other people’s words echo in her mind. “I’m too much, yet still not good enough. Not what I’m supposed to be. What everyone wants me to be.”
Eric frowned. “Don’t ever say that.” He gripped her hips in his hands, pressing firmly into her fullness. It was beyond him, beyond his total understanding, how people could look at Ava and not be in awe. She was amazing; how could they not see it? How could she not see it? Ava was beauty. She was wonder. She was joy and laughter and the best goddamned thing in his life. She was everything worth having in this world. Eric wouldn’t let anyone talk about her like she was less than, not even her.
She was precisely who she was meant to be, in spite of the world’s expectations of her. Eric pulled Ava into himself, letting her hips grind over his own. Over the hard length pressing against his pants, proving that her brand of perfection should never settle for good enough. She was stunning. Someone worth stopping and staring at. Since the first moment Eric had seen her, he’d been transfixed. He bent his head to press a kiss to her neck so he could murmur into her flesh, “You are more than enough. You are everything.”
And he would show her that.
First things first, he needed to get her out of these offensively respectable clothes. He reached for the buttons on her blouse, his fingers fumbling with the tiny, finicky things between his thickly gloved mitts. He grumbled when she giggled, shooing his helpless hands away before simply tugging the shirt over her head and tossing it in the general direction of the laundry basket. Before he could even ask, she stripped off her depressingly gray pants as well, giving them the same dismissive treatment.
Leaving her in a lacy, floral-patterned, corseted bustier and matching panties. Eric raised his eyebrow as his gaze roamed over her hungrily. “You wore that to work?”
Ava shrugged a little sheepishly. “I thought it would make me feel better.”
“Did it?”
She bit her lip mischievously. “A little.”
Eric smiled. There she was. His Ava who wore lingerie as armor, like a secret no one could steal from her. “God, you’re perfect.” He stared at the cups barely containing her breasts as he ran his hands up her hips, over her waist, to frame her ribcage, pressing woven pleather into ephemeral lace. A shiver shot through her as his textured touch traced the steel boning sculpting her body, adoring every angle and curve. God, he was supposed to be seducing her, yet here she was, stirring the hell out of him by simply standing there in all her gossamery glory. Fuck. He needed to get his head in the game.
Remembering what he was doing — remembering why he was doing it — Eric stared up at her shielded eyes. “Do you believe me, Fisherwoman?”
Ava pursed her lips in a small smirk. “A little.”
Smartass. He grabbed her delectable ass in his hands, lifting her up to turn them both before bending her over the bed. “I adore you, my soft-bodied female animal, so you should listen to me.” He pressed his lips to the small of her back. “Believe me.” The curve of her ass. “Trust me.” If the Wicker Husband’s story proved anything at all, no good ever came from listening to overly loud, small-minded voices.
Giggling, Ava wiggled her lush behind as he teased tickling kisses along the hem of her panties. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” He gave her one last soft press of his lips before he pulled her panties down. “And I know just how to help you.” Ava’s breath hitched as Eric grabbed the decorative willow branches he’d bought on a whim. They’d played with spanking and impact toys before. Eric knew that the thrill and sting of it excited Ava, rushing through her and flooding her so full of adrenaline and endorphins that there wasn’t room for anything beyond the overwhelming stimulation. To be fair, the fall-flavored floral accents weren’t made to be played with like this. They felt brittle and too flimsy to survive a full spanking session. But, if used more as a tantalizing tease — and if for the theme alone — Eric thought them a pretty perfect pervertable toy.
So he grabbed a handful and grazed the twisting, curling branches over her bared skin, enjoying the way her ass shivered in anticipation. “The voices of the town that you’ve let inside your head are too loud, Fisherwoman. But, sure as the sea, I will drown them out, until all you hear is me.” He planted his hand at the base of her spine to ground them both and pulled back his arm. “What are you?”
Ava snickered questioningly. “Uh,” she hemmed, “your soft-bodied female animal?”
He smacked her butt with the branches, not even bothering to hide his utterly wicked smirk as her ass bounced and she let out a high-pitched squeal. “What else?” he asked.
Trying so hard not to laugh, Ava let out an indignant scoff. “I thought you were made to adore me!” she bratted.
Eric grinned as he bent low to kiss her hip. “I was.” Before taking a nibbling bite of that succulent curve. “But not all worship looks the same.” Hell, even the divine sometimes needed sinners to remind them of their worth. He straightened as she squirmed. “What else?”
Ava gaped, a little stumped by his words but eager to play his game. He could see her rewinding the night in her head, searching for the right answer. “Um, perfect?”
He struck her again. “Is that a question?” He let the twigs snap against her skin. “Are you not sure?”
She gasped before saying more steadily, “I’m perfect.”
Fuck yeah, she was. He rubbed his glove along her spine approvingly, groaning as she arched up into the touch. “What else?”
“I’m… good enough.” Her voice was still weak, lacking conviction, but at least she wasn’t asking anymore.
“What else?” He made her repeat his words back to him, sealing each piece of praise with a caress or crack of the willow across her willing flesh. Capable. Nimble. Beautiful. He made her list her own attributes. Creative. Kind. Dedicated. Funny. Each word, each branch-punctuated benediction, became breathier but somehow more certain. As if each teasing strike was chipping away at the oppressive weight and stifling pressure that had built up around her, letting Ava’s natural light shine through again.
It was the sexiest sight Eric had ever seen. By the end, he felt as breathless as she did. “What else?” he all but growled out. “What else are you?”
“Uh…” She shook her head, her sensation-soaked brain buzzing too feverishly to form words.
“Mine,” he supplied. He reached out to turn her over onto her back, before bending her knees to make space for himself between her spread thighs. “You are mine. I was made to love you,” he said, kissing her ankle, her calf, her knee, and all along her thick, satiny thigh. “But you were made for me too.” His lips lingered low on her hip, where her yanked-down, frilled panties met heated skin, before pulling the scant fabric free and setting them aside. “Please don’t throw her away.” Ava was amazing. Just because her employer, her coworkers, hell, even her own mother, couldn’t see her worth didn’t mean she didn’t have any. She should never have to change any part of herself to please anyone else. Not even Eric. God knew, he was always more than pleased by her just as she was.
He leaned down to simply inhale her. Fuck, she smelled good. Like warm, wet woman. His mouth watered as his grip on her legs tightened until the pleather creaked with the tension. He stared down at her drenched pussy and licked his lips. “May I have you?”
She nodded fervently as she slipped her fingers into his hair, feeling the bits of broom brush he’d shoved into the strands. Because, if he was going to go to the trouble of becoming the Wicker Husband, Eric was damned well going to commit to the bit. She chuckled and plucked a piece of dried grass to twirl between her fingertips. “You really are the best; you know that, right?”
Hell yeah, he did now. He wiggled his eyebrows at her. “You’ll have to compliment the Basketmaker on his craftsmanship.”
Ava threw her head back against the mattress and laughed, tucking the straw back behind his ear. “I’ll be sure to mention it the next time we see your dad.”
Eric gaped at her like a fish caught on this wicked woman’s hook. Yeah, that’d be a helluva conversation. He nipped at her pussy, letting her labia feel the playful threat of his teeth without any of the bite. “Soft-bodied vixen, more like it.”
She cackled as she gripped the back of his nape, pulling him closer. “You like it.”
And, because Eric did, he didn’t argue. He had better things to do with his mouth at the moment.
*
“Oh my God,” Ava groaned as Eric’s mouth moved over her breasts, nibbling at the cleavage peeking out from the cups of her corset. His hands smoothed over her back, arching her up, urging her into him. Except they weren’t his hands. With the blindfold tied tight around her eyes, she could only feel that odd, basket-like touch make its way over her body reverently. Worshipfully, just as her Wicker Husband had promised. The rough, thoroughly inhuman fibers only highlighted the deep devotion being lavished upon her. She felt beautiful, cherished. And, after months of feeling dimmed and diminished… Ava hadn’t realized how much she’d needed this.
Not just to be touched, but seen. For all that she was, and loved for it anyway. Because of it. To be reminded how much she valued herself. How much she deserved to be respected and accepted. Not for meeting some arbitrary expectations, but for always and already being more than them.
Her voice broke on a gasp as those tough, textured hands pushed the cups of her corset lower so they could curve around her breasts. She gripped at strong forearms, feeling that same twisted pattern there pulsing as the muscles beneath moved in her grasp. Living wicker.
It was a silly fantasy. A pretty outlandish premise that smacked a bit of “born sexy yesterday” and salacious wish fulfillment tropes that likely accounted for a good portion of the thirstier ticket sales. It shouldn’t be hot. It was a fucking fairy tale, for God’s sake. Starring a seriously sexy actor, sure, but still. It — like so many of the things she loved, according to her mother — shouldn’t have the chokehold it held on a fully grown adult woman.
But, for Ava, the film was more than that. The Fisherwoman spoke to the parts of her that had always felt different, inadequate, that would never fit in. Those parts that she loved most about herself, that somehow never seemed to be appreciated by anyone else. That story, silly and outlandish as it was, reached inside her soul and touched her need to belong. To have someone in this often too harsh, too judgmental, too lonely of a world who was made to be hers. Someone sculpted and shaped to see and choose and desire the parts of her no one else wanted.
The fact that he could also fuck her through the matress only made the fantasy sweeter.
And here he was. Her Wicker Husband. Her Eric. God, how much time and effort had he spent making this all happen? All to simply please her. He truly was the best.
Certainly so, as his tongue teased her nipples, the taut buds tightening under his hungry attention. Her hips thrust up against his broad, reedy chest, rubbing her sensitive skin against his rough, hard planes. Fuck.
“That’s it, Fisherwoman,” she heard Eric murmur into her breast, “chase it. Ride it. Use me to make it feel good.” His hot breath against her slickened skin made her moan. That lusty sound broke as he sucked her into his mouth, pulling on her nipple with his lips.
“Holy hell,” she sighed as her back bowed.
“No, pretty peasant girl,” he told her before licking her more. “Only heaven between us.” He nuzzled her, the stubble on his cheeks and the straw in his hair in positively sinful juxtaposition to the soft, wet sweeps of his lips and tongue. She couldn’t stay still, bucking beneath his hard, heavy body, as sensation rode her higher and higher. He made a low, hungry noise that rumbled through her. “You taste like salvation.” He kissed between her breasts. “Like meaning.” Her quivering belly. “Like purpose.” Her thrust-up mound. “Like my reason for being.” On a needy groan, he pressed his face into her heat.
She gripped his hair at the nape of his neck, feeling the dry straw and silken strands clenched between her fingers as she held him there. “Please.” The word dripped unbidden from her lips. “Please.”
When his tongue dipped between her slick folds, she arched into it with a deep, drawn-out moan. “Fuck, Fisherwoman,” he told her, “you taste like lust and liquid heat.” He licked again, letting the stroke linger as he lapped her arousal from her skin. She could feel — swore she could damned near hear — those corded hands clutch her thighs, holding them steady as she shuddered. The press of those palms was so intense Ava was sure she’d wear his marks in the morning. “You’re so soaked for me, aren’t you?” The tip of his tongue teased her clit, flicking when she was seeking… something. Pressure. Suction. More. She simply needed more.
Stiving for leverage, she planted her feet against his braided shoulders and thrust her hips up into his touch so she could grind herself against him. He groaned into her, “That’s it. Give it to me. Get your Wicker Husband wet with it.” He rewarded her by running his tongue over her in a long, hard lick. “Drown me in you.” His hands slid down to cup her ass, dragging her nearer, so he could feast upon her, nipping and sucking her sex while she writhed with it. “Come for me, my sweet soft-bodied siren. I want to feel the waves of your desire crash over me.”
Ava cried out as she came, her back bowing as she all but crushed his face to her. The tide of her orgasm taking hold of her, making her body tense and twitch. And, all the while, her timber knight stayed stalwart in her unrelenting grasp, content to coax every drop of pleasure from her with his eager mouth. And, once her body finally collapsed limply, he licked her languid body clean with his tongue.
She was still panting and sightlessly staring into nothing by the time he climbed the bed to lie beside her, to press sultry, slick lips to hers in a soft kiss. “How are you doing?” he asked her, gently brushing back her hair that had fallen into her face from all the thrashing.
She chuckled breathlessly. There weren’t words to describe all the emotions still rippling inside her. And, even if there were, she didn’t have the strength to find them. So she settled on, “So fucking good.”
He echoed her with his own low laugh. “Ready for more?”
She sat up a bit. “There’s more?”
“There can be,” he told her, still stroking her hair, “if you want it.”
Oh, she definitely wanted it. “Like what?”
“We-e-ell,” he said impishly, “you know all those memes you were showing me about seeing Wicker in 4DX…”
Her eyes popped open behind the blindfold. He couldn’t mean… “You mean about all the girlies going ga-ga over getting splinters in interesting ways and in very interesting places?” Her jaw dropped as he just continued to laugh maniacally. What did he have in mind?
She melted into him as he murmured sexily in her ear, “Can’t truly become your Wicker Husband if you never ride my broomstick, can I, my Fisher Wife?”
What was her life!
Ava doubled over with laughter. How had she gotten so lucky? Eric was everything she could have ever asked for in a partner and, clearly, more. Never, in a million years, could she have imagined anyone doing anything like this for her. And, while a part of her was really hoping he was being metaphorical right now, he’d more than proven himself worthy of her trust. So, yeah, you know what? “Take me for a ride, my withy ox.”
She pursed her lips as she impatiently listened to him move about the room, fumbling with this and that. She tried not to giggle as he struggled and cursed while shucking his pants. Hearing him mess about in the attached bath, running the water and whatnot, she couldn’t help wondering what the hell he was up to. When she couldn’t take the suspense any longer, she — only mostly — joked, “You’re not really going to fuck me with a broom handle, right?”
The bed dipped under his weight as he settled next to her, causing her to shift against his now naked body. Well, mostly naked. “You tell me,” he said, taking her hand and running it slowly down his woven chest before closing her fist around—
“Is that your dick?” she all but shrieked. Her fingers gripped him, feeling the strange basket-like texture along and around his hard shaft, leaving the head of his cock still exposed. It was silicone-esque and soft to the touch. Had Eric bought a Wicker-themed cock sleeve? Was that even a thing? How did he manage to find something like that? She supposed sex toys came in all shapes and sizes, and were no strangers to being ribbed for her pleasure. Yet another thing to thank all those clever “Basketmakers” for.
“I’ve, uh,” he said, his voice a little shaky as her fingers played and explored his length, “never used one of these things before.” He swallowed hard as his hips gave a quick jerk. “Didn’t know if I’d actually like it.”
“And do you?” She stroked him harder, letting the interesting texture play along her palm as her thumb rubbed over his sensitive tip.
He rolled his hips and made a low, lusty sound under her curious attention. “It’s, uh, different.” He thrust up into her touch. “But, yeah, I think I do.”
Ava was pretty sure she would too. Just the thought of all those ridges and grooves inside her made her pussy clench.
Time to see what that wicker was like.
Smirking, Ava pushed his shoulders until he was lying on his back before her. Using touch alone, she maneuvered herself so she was straddling his hips. Testing, teasing, she rubbed herself over the length of his cock. She felt the shape and structure of him against her swollen lips, leaving him slicker with each slow slide. She pressed her palms to his chest, letting her fingers dig into its twisted weave.
“Damn, baby,” he huffed, his gruff voice humbled with awe, “look at you. So fucking beautiful.” His hands roamed her body before sliding behind her neck to pull her down for a searing kiss. “So pretty as you rub yourself all over me, so desperate to feel my thick wicker dick all over this drenched pussy, aren’t you?”
She nodded, too lost in pleasure to answer properly.
“Yeah,” his voice was low, hungry. “You love the feel of it over that needy clit, don’t you?” He moved with her, sure to hit that tender spot with each push of his undulating body. “That’s why you’re riding me so hard, why those sexy hips are working so fast.”
Ava bit her lip and nodded more. Yes. Yes. Yes. It was so good. Eric’s voice and presence was so familiar, knowing just what to say and do to rev her up, even as the body she touched — that touched her too — felt thrillingly new in a way that left her ravenous — almost feral — for him. She wanted all of him, the known and the devastatingly novel. Wanted to climb and claim him. Mark him as hers and never let go. She dug her hands into him, the braided grain almost grating against her fierce grip, and moaned.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” he purred into her ear. “But it’s not enough.” He slid his hands down her neck, her shoulders. “My frantic Fisherwoman wants to know what it would feel like inside, doesn’t she?” Those thick, coarse fingers caressed her breasts, tweaked her nipples, making her cry out as she arched into the touch. “Wouldn’t it feel good to have me part those pretty lips?” He trailed those wicked palms down over her waist, her hips, to cup her ass in his firm grip. “To have me push deeper and deeper so you can feel me drag along those warm, welcoming walls?” He rocked her hips harder against him. “To clench around me as you come on my cock.”
Fuck. “Yes.” She wanted that. So much. “Please.”
“Then do it, pretty peasant girl,” he said the words softly, his breath hot and heady against her mouth. “Take all that I have.” His rough hands encircled her hips, lowering her down onto him. “Everything I am is yours.”
The stretch was deliciously tight, his cock feeling wider as the added ridges pushed inside her. She threw her head back on a heated whimper, only to have him drag her back into his kiss. His tongue delved deep into her mouth, tangling with hers like he couldn’t get enough of her taste, even as his dick drove inside, gaining more and more ground with each grinding thrust.
The bed groaned beneath them and, for a moment, Ava worried for the frame. But then his hand slid down between them to press against her clit, making her own keening cries drown out any other sound. She slid her fingers into his hair and kissed him back just as fiercely, their frenzied motions shaking the dried grass free from the strands. Even as their mouths met, ate, consumed each other, he whispered manic, almost delirious words. Impassioned, profanity-laced odes to her beauty, her strength, her whimsy. He called her magical and goddamned miraculous. He made promises to be with her, beside her, to love her, always. He begged her to stay with him. Just like this. Locked together in this fevered rhythm. Forever. And, as pleasure swelled between them, almost too much to bear, Ava swallowed it all, the heated taste of his words honeyed on her tongue.
She gasped, the fullness threatening to shatter her. Only to have his arms wrap around her, holding her tight, even as his thrusting hips urged her on. “Come for me,” he pleaded, his voice ruined with pleasure. “I’ve got you.” So, surrounded by the hurried sound, the carnal touch, and the unparalleled perfection of him, she let go.
*
Eric heard something beneath them snap as the admittedly old bed shifted slightly beneath them, but all he could do was groan when he felt Ava come, the heavenly grip of her pussy enough to propel him into his own orgasm. His hold on her tightened as he pushed his hips harder into her, needing more of her warmth, her wetness, her wonder. He’d never get enough of this. Of her. He wouldn’t let anyone — not her boss, her mother, not anyone — try to take her away. Try to steal and shut away all the things that made her her.
As their pleasure settled, Ava laid her head down on his chest sleepily and wrapped her arms around him. She sighed. “I wish we really could stay like this forever.”
Eric nodded, nuzzling the top of her head as he stroked her back. Yeah. As much as the fantasy-fueled part of his brain liked the idea of fixing all her problems with sex-filled roleplay, Eric knew nothing they’d done tonight had truly changed anything. She would still have to go back to work tomorrow, would have to cooperate and collaborate with people who didn’t know and were uninterested in learning how to handle her at all, much less with the care she deserved.
But, maybe now that he and Ava were both feeling better — more connected, less hopeless — they could find solutions. “Maybe after work, we can go out. Go out to eat. Walk in the park. Go somewhere you can wear what you want and show it off.” She, like many of the movie-goers, had dressed up for the film and Eric knew that, after weeks of staid outfits and forced smiles, that had made the viewing experience even better for her. Maybe they could recreate that outside the bedroom. And without, you know, quite so much dried grass.
She hugged him closer. “That sounds fun,” she agreed. “I was also thinking, maybe I’d try mixing my wardrobes together more.”
He grinned as he absently played with the ties crisscrossing her back. “Like wearing corsets under your collared shirts?”
She laughed, taking the blindfold off. “Or over them.” She shrugged. “Maybe not this one,” she said, gesturing to the scandalously lacy bustier. “But still finding ways to bring more of my style into the office, like making peasant dresses professional somehow, you know?”
He nodded. “Corporate cottagecore?”
She chuckled. “Think that’s a thing?”
If anyone could make it so, it would be her. “Feel free to model anything you like for me;” he said, wiggling his brows, “I’ll be glad to tell you exactly what I think.” Or show her. Yeah, the more he thought about it, the more the idea was growing on him.
She smacked him playfully with the blindfold. “I bet you will.”
He wrapped his still placemat-covered arms around her as she stared at his getup with an impressed, if thoroughly amused grin. “Well,” he said confidently, “whatever happens, we’ll figure it out together, right?” After all, if they could make a wicker fairy tale real, they could make anything happen. “Speaking of which…” He shifted and winced as the bed wobbled unevenly. “I think we might need to figure out a new place to sleep. Pretty sure we managed to actually break the bed.”
She yawned and stretched out beside him. “Hell yeah, we did.” She held up her hand for a lazy high five. “Don’t worry about it, my Wicker Husband. You already brought the hammer;” she said smugly, her voice lowering deeply to quote, “ ‘I will fix it.’ ”
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