The naked house – short free fiction from Fulani

Continuing the moving-to-a-new-house saga. It’s quite short, just 1100 words or so, because it was done quickly in between finishing off some other stuff. The first two stories on this theme are here and here. There will be another couple of stories on this theme eventually, split between this blog and Fulani’s other blog.


The Naked House


The previous owners had removed everything, of course: carpets, curtains, furniture, even the light bulbs. Of course they had: they’d stripped the place and it had been empty for months, the agent had told us, because they’d emigrated. It was ready for new paint, new carpets, new furniture, new possessions. It was ready to be adapted, remodelled, to fit our own tastes, ideas, lifestyle.

That wasn’t going to happen quite yet. With the delay in the house purchase, we’d had to let our stuff go into storage and wouldn’t see it until the removal company had a truck available in five days’ time. Until then, we had a bare house. Clothes. Kettle and mugs. Sleeping bags. Our imagination. We could plan, and we could paint the walls.

No house, though, is truly empty after it’s vacated. There were still traces of the previous owners. We didn’t look in the bathroom mirror and get glimpses of them, anything like that. But we did get glimpses of them from the patterns of wear: the patches on the walls where pictures had been hung or furniture placed, scuff marks on the bare floorboards, the way the empty space moved and flowed.

Jen and I laid out our sleeping bags in the big front bedroom. Huddled in them, with a hot tea for Jen and hot coffee for me. We’d eaten dinner at a nearby restaurant, and bought an electric kettle earlier in the day. The room was cold because the central heating guy hadn’t finished fitting the new boiler. No curtains, just reflected light from the street lamps and the occasional car. We let ourselves relax: the move had been stressful, we wouldn’t see our possessions for a few more days, and the plan was to use the emptiness to get some redecoration done.

Something kept glinting at me, catching the reflection of passing headlights. A hook in the ceiling, there, by the bay window. Looked like it would be anchored on a joist.

I pointed it out. Jen arched an eyebrow.

I shrugged. ‘Who knows? One of those Sixties globe seats that hangs from a chain? Heavy flower basket?’

Jen looked around. ‘That wouldn’t explain the eyebolts in the skirting boards, though.’

Either side of the bay window, large bolts that would be sunk well into the brickwork behind the skirtings.

‘If we find a use for them, they’ll stay. If not, I’ll take them out when we redecorate.’ But my imagination notched up a gear. I could definitely find a use for them.

The twist at the corner of Jen’s lips means she already knows what use I’m thinking of. She can read my mind.

‘We’re going to need heavy light-tight curtains in here.’

Well, yes we are. Unless of course we’re going to be exhibitionists.

She puts her mug down and her head in my lap. I stroke her hair. I have my tender moments.

After a while, she tells me to look at the wall behind me.

‘There’s a shadow on the wall. I can’t see what’s casting it.’

From this angle, there’s a clear outline of an X, from floor to ceiling. I run my fingers over it. Where the X is, I can feel the wallpaper is slightly compressed. When I tell Jen this, she looks up at me wide-eyed in the darkness. A car goes past outside and the reflection of its headlights make her eyes flash wickedly.

‘Now why,’ she says with a mock innocence, ‘would the previous owners have a big cross mounted against the wall…?’

I think the answer is the obvious one. But I take her wrists, stretch them wide across the floor. She arches her back and chuckles. But then she says: ‘It’s too cold in here. You can’t expect me to strip naked.’

She has a point. On the other hand, the eyebolts are right there in the wall and I have a couple of thin webbing luggage straps around my suitcase. So it’s not long before her wrists are tied to the eyebolts with the straps, she’s lying on the sleeping bags, and her jeans and panties are bundled up and tossed into a far corner of the room. I’m considerate enough to leave the thick woollen socks on her feet. They look cute. I could easily become a sock fetishist, I suspect. There are Goosebumps on the insides of her thighs, where the tendons are hard and outlined against her flesh. I warm them against my hot tongue. Taste all the mixed emotions of the day on the lips of her pussy; sweetness with an underlying mix of tension, hope, frustration, anticipation, relief. Use my fingers to spread the lips and circle Jen’s clit. I can feel the little spasms and jumps and twitches inside, coming from midway between clit and navel.

It’s always amused and gratified me that the moment I tie her wrists, she goes into that alternate, submissive headspace.

I fuck her, slowly and deeply, watching her face in the sodium lights from outside. I see the screwed-up eyes, the way her lips part and her jaw sets as she pushes determinedly towards orgasm. I see the tension of the day slipping away from her, replaced by an altogether different and more urgent tension. She’s beautiful like this.

I feel the increasingly impatient thrust of her hips against mine.

Nine times out of ten, sex for us involves ropes, chains, whips, floggers, gags and blindfolds. And multiple partners. As far as we’re concerned, this is as close as we’ve got to vanilla sex in quite a while.

Don’t knock vanilla sex; it’s a refreshing change.

And then I feel her back arching, legs and arms tense, see the rictus of climax on her face. Eyes open wide but they’re not looking anywhere, focused inwards on the slo-mo explosion of pleasure.

Takes me another couple of minutes to get there myself, my own rictus of pleasure. Jen doesn’t care, she’s multi-orgasmic.

And eventually we sleep spooned together, stroking softly, the straps released from the eyebolts but still on her wrists. I listen to Jen’s even breaths, feel her ribs move with the inhale/exhale, and watch headlights flicking across the wall, high up, hitting the top right hand side of the X like a big tick winking at me.


In the morning, now we know what to look for, we find more evidence. The light spatter of candlewax on the lounge floor, a rough pattern suggesting the outline of a now-absent object. Half of a mail-order catalogue from a sex shop, caught among brambles in the back garden.

We know now what attracted us to the house in the first place.  

The lingering clues about, and traces of, the previous owners.



By the way, this just in: a new review of Seducing the Myth, the Lucy Felthouse collection with a Fulani story in it. It’s over at The Pen Muse.

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