The House in Love

Have you ever fucked a house? Well, I had to...

Where to begin... Probably with the fact that my beloved grandmother "went over the rainbow." May she rest in peace. And the house passed to us by inheritance. After all that commotion and the required procedures and waiting, we went to the village again, now as the owners of the house. Mom immediately said she didn't like it and suggested selling it. But my entire golden childhood was spent in that house, of course I talked her out of it. For me, it was The House! To all questions like: "who will look after everything?" and "why do you need this?" I answered that I intended to live there, fortunately my work allows it — freelancing is freelancing.

After moving in and the first night, everything was as usual, but when I started cleaning (I think that's when it started) and rearranging the furniture "to my liking," I first got scratched, then bumped into something, slipped, hit the table, tripped over a chair leg, and burned myself. In short, I looked like I'd been in a fight. At first, I chalked it all up to my own clumsiness and the unfamiliar arrangement of things, but when stacks of clothes I had folded myself started falling on me, and that damn chair, which I specifically (I remember!) pushed into a corner, ended up right under my feet in the middle of the room, I realized something was wrong. So when the neighbor came by to see how I was settling in and saw me disheveled and emotionally frayed (just missing a black eye), I told her about my misadventures. After a pause, she suggested:

"Go see Matryona. She'll tell you what to do."

I agreed. Matryona is the local folk healer. People went to her for advice even when I was running to the river in just my underwear.

I come to her, tell her about my difficulties.

"Your house doesn't want to accept you."

"A domovoy or something?"

"No, not a domovoy. Well, let's call it the spirit of the house. A domovoy is more about the household, but a HOUSE is protection, help, healing. There's a saying: 'even the walls at home help.' It's a shame you weren't carried over the threshold — it would have been easier."

"Why's that?"

"One's own must LEAVE the house. A stranger ENTERS."

"And the spirit — is it like a genie?"

"Ho! A genie! Some domovoys could put their devs to shame."

It was strange to hear talk of Eastern myths from the mouth of a village healer.

"You'll have to become kin with the house."

"What does 'become kin' mean?" I ask.

"Share your blood with it."

"What, am I supposed to cut my veins or something?"

"Don't rush, you fidget! Why cut right away. It's easier for us women — we have enough blood every month, and blood from the giver works stronger anyway."

I sit, silent — waiting for what she'll say next. She held a pause, nodded ("paying attention") and continued:

"When your womanly blood flows at the right time, you drip that blood on all the thresholds. And not through a rag or those newfangled pads of yours, but straight from the body, so it's still warm and hasn't touched anything. Understood?"

I nod slowly:

"I think so. So I need to drip blood on all the thresholds straight from 'there'?"

"From there, from there. It should start soon for you, right?"

"Well, in about two weeks..."

"That's good. You'll have time to comprehend it. Without comprehension, it won't work right. And repeat it a couple of times, for good measure."

With that, she sent me off.

For a week, I walked on tiptoe and slowly. And still, doors opening at the wrong time, falling dishes, and the like didn't let me relax. Apparently due to these nervous experiences, "the business" started earlier than I expected, but in this case, it was even for the better.

Inside the house, it was easy to get around, but outside... I had to get creative. With the additional doors to the yard and the bathhouse, it was simple: I stood on the threshold with my legs apart — it dripped by itself. But with the door leading to the street, I had to be inventive. I took a rag in my hands, I wasn't wearing panties anyway, and the dress was short, even ultra-short. I bought it for one... okay, not about that now... I got on all fours, opened the door wide, and crawled onto the porch, spreading my legs, pretending to wash the threshold and the floor on the porch. I crawled into position — so that my crotch remained over the threshold, I'm rubbing the floorboards. Waiting for it to drip. Feeling like a fool. People sometimes walk by on the street, and I'm here scrubbing. Good to have a hedge — it covers at least a little. Did everything clench up down there or something — it's not flowing. As I imagined myself from the side: on all fours, legs spread, dress almost on my back, tits swaying (I'm scrubbing the floor), good thing no one's behind me. Or is there? I have the impression that someone is burning a hole through me with their gaze. Without jumping up, so as not to attract unwanted attention, I lower my head down, look between my legs back — no one. But someone is looking! And so intently! And the view is really something! Even dried blood doesn't spoil it. I feel, from the gaze of the non-existent one or from my thoughts, it's starting to get hot down there. Apparently this helped me relax and a couple of drops fell. Phew! Done! But I can't stand up like that! I had to crawl back. A very strange sensation: crawling towards a gaze, drilling, intent to the point of heaviness. I closed the door, stood up and saw myself in the mirror: the dress really was at my waist, the slit was visible, nipples sticking out, hair standing on end — just a fairytale beauty! I pulled down the dress, twirled around — a beauty! I turned to go change and immediately tripped. But the floor is even!

"Probably didn't work, I understand why it needs to be repeated," I thought, changing. Self-hypnosis or I became more careful, but the inconveniences became less. The next day, I was getting dressed with memories of the drilling gaze. I walked around the house with my dress pulled up to my waist and rubbing my nipples — "to relax" as I kept telling myself, only tidying myself up a bit before the exterior doors. I opened the door wide, squatted down, spreading my knees, and only then got on my knees. I scrubbed the porch floorboards more fiercely — so my tits would sway and pop out of the décolleté. I deliberately didn't raise my head, whether anyone saw me — I don't know. Probably not — there was no talking. I felt like a cat before mating — if I had a tail, I'd raise it and move it aside. Unfortunately, I couldn't entertain myself for long — this time everything went much faster. I had to stand up, turn around in the doorway, and go inside. Passing by the mirror, I saw that my appearance was even more disheveled than yesterday. When I washed up, I had to relieve the tension with my hand. To be honest, I didn't even notice how it happened — I came to my senses already in orgasmic convulsions. I don't know if it helped or not — I walked around all day like I was drunk, with a foggy head and swaying.

The next day, I decided to repeat it "for good measure." Inside the house, I was already wandering around without clothes, imagining how someone invisible was watching me. My hand wouldn't leave the horny one, I thought I'd get a callus — well, just couldn't stop. And I almost opened the door to the street wide open naked, that would have surprised people. I had to get dressed. This time, I didn't even pull the little dress down below my waist — it would ride up anyway. I went out, stretched, and squatted facing the street, fiddling with my clit with a finger, pulled my tits out of the dress and squeezed them. Good thing no one saw — I came earlier and fell inside the house. Something came over me — I started rolling around, writhing, stretching on the floor. And I brought myself to climax with my hand again. I even started looking for something to put inside myself, but fell asleep right on the floor. Came to and wandered off to wash. Slept until the next morning, the "leak" ended just then — life is beautiful

and amazing!

I jump up briskly and immediately trip over the rug and fly forehead-first right into the door jamb. Didn't make it — the rug slipped out from under my feet and I crashed to the floor relatively safely — didn't damage anything, and the nail will grow back later. What can I say... the furniture stopped throwing itself under my feet, of course, but I started catching my clothes on everything. Literally everything: on corners and doors, on chair backs and armrests, on forks-spoons-knives, managed to catch on an absolutely round pot, spilled on myself, had to change. Immediately, flour spilled on me. Changed. And caught on an invisible knot, so much so that I left my clothes on the wall.

I went skipping to Matryona.

"Running around naked, I suppose?"

I nodded guiltily.

"You'll have to make love."

"What does 'make love' mean?"

"Well, you folks nowadays call it 'give yourself up.'"

"To the house?"

"Yes."

I sit there blinking.

"And you thought! The house is probably older than me, right?"

"Yes, the house is from the century before last. That's why I love it, so many years, and it's like new."

"Better, girl, better. A real house will protect and guard and anticipate — better than a husband sometimes... Anyway, like this... walk around the house, rub your furry little thing, but don't shove handles-spoons inside — that's the domovoy's domain, you need what's directly related to the house — corners, handles, doors, you'll figure it out in general."

And apparently looking at my stunned face, she continued:

"I understand it sounds wild to you, but everything around has its own spirit, soul if you will, and you have to treat everything like a living being."

"Does that mean I can't even change clothes now?"

"No, not like that. These spirits aren't interested in our intimacies, with rare exceptions — she winked at me. — You're lucky, you could say — if you establish a relationship, not a single robber is scary — the house itself won't let him in or will catch him, or scare him into stuttering."

"And... and... What am I supposed to do now?" I squeaked.

"It's clear you won't be able to quickly grasp what and how to do, so here, take this — she handed me a newspaper pouch — here's some calming, health-giving herb, will give you strength, and other little things..."

I walked back thoughtfully — one thing is to drip blood from your pussy, and another is to fuck the furnishings. While thinking, on autopilot, I put on my sexy dress, then came to my senses, thought: "Becoming home attire. Well, so be it." I brewed tea from Matryona. Got busy with things. Surprisingly — didn't catch on anything once. I feel it starting to flare up down below and a fog creeping into my head. "Well, Granny Matryona," I managed to think.

I came to on the roof hugging the chimney, without clothes and with a chafing itch between my legs. Hope I didn't catch anything. Looked around. "Holy cow, how did I get up here — I'm afraid of heights! Started sliding down. Good thing it's night — no one can see. With trembling knees, I climbed down. (Specially for etales.org — etales.org) Soaked in water, pulled on the dress, sitting trying to remember what happened. Totally blank. Only sensations. While I was remembering, morning came, I hear a voice — calling me from the yard, my beloved. I completely forgot he was supposed to come today! And he apparently rushed over on the first train. Misses me. I look out the window — and he's already standing under the window, handing me flowers. I take the flowers, lean over to kiss-thank him (the window height allows it), well, as I lean — my chest lay on the windowsill. And during the kiss, I feel. Along my leg, and then along the "giver" as if a hand was run, but a furry and cool one. I, surprisingly to myself, reacted violently and literally clung to my husband, leaning out even more from the window and letting my breast fall out. My husband's eyes widened — he couldn't help but notice my reaction, and behind me at that time I was being caressed in such a way that it's pointless to tell — you wouldn't believe it. I came in about 15 seconds. Good thing there's nowhere to fall — I'm already lying on the windowsill. Why didn't I squeal from the touch? I don't know... No, I know! It was exactly this touch that was caressing me when... well, you understand...

My husband pesters me with questions: "Did you dress like that for me or are you expecting someone?" Like he's joking. But I'm not in the mood for jokes — I can't even smile. Barely pulled myself together while my husband was walking to the door. Well, I met him on the threshold: squatted down in front of him and did everything that's supposed to be done. And in my head the thought: "if he drags me to bed now — I'll fall asleep."

PB's

September 2013