Quarrie Balfour slowly climbed the steps of his mansion that led to the second floor. It was early, only a little after ten, but the guests were gone and the house was quiet. He paused to look out the tower window that was half-way up the steps. This house wasn’t a castle, nor was it made of stone, but the architect had attempted to capture some of the characteristics of the Balfour Castle, the family ancestral home which now lay in ruins back in Scotland.
Downstairs the servants and staff were busy cleaning up from the Halloween dinner party. There had been a time when Quarrie’s Halloween celebrations were raucous... and raunchy... and lasted through the night. But moderation comes with age. Sometimes more than moderation comes with age. There was a time when Quarrie would dress as a Roman emperor and walk through the party surrounded by naked slaves. Another favorite of his was to dress as a character from one of the latest more risque plays or movies and act out particularly lewd scenes with other guests who had dressed appropriately.
But that was then. Now he used this one night of the year to dress in his ancient Balfour Clan regalia and sit quietly at a sumptuous banquet attended by some of his many friends and business acquaintances. Close friends sat with him at the head table. Most wore some form of costume, but almost all were rather staid. He didn’t recognize very many people at the other tables. Even those who were not wearing costumes seemed, at best, only vaguely familiar to him.
As Quarrie climbed the stairs, he reached down to smooth his multi-colored tartan kilt with its squares of blue and gray cross-striped with double yellow bands and a narrow red stripe. None of the pleats were out of place. It had taken two servants over an hour to properly fold and lay out the fabric and then help to wrap him in his kilt as he lay naked from the shirt down on the bed. The puffy, white linen shirt was the first thing he put on. His knife was the last.
As he entered his bedroom he unwrapped the kilt from his body and threw it over a chair. Tomorrow a servant would slowly re-pleat and fold the fabric and then store it carefully away for next year. He had just kicked his sandals to one side when he heard an odd noise coming from his bathroom. Through the slightly open door, he could tell that the light was on and hear that water was running.
He hurried to the bathroom door and pushed it fully open. Inside a very beautiful, very pale, very naked woman was kneeling next to the sunken tub apparently rinsing out a rather large white garment that had probably been her costume earlier in the evening. Quarrie stopped and quickly reviewed the guests from the party in his mind. There were several women wearing togas or other similar costumes. Was this one of them? Perhaps, but he couldn’t remember anyone in any costume with such very pale skin nor with this particular shade of dark brown hair. Definitely he could not remember any woman with such bright, naturally red lips.
She was natural beneath her arms and between her legs and there was a light trace of fuzz on her legs, but that did not identify her. Back in the day when his parties were raucous, most of the women at the parties were smooth and hairless from the neck down. But that was not needed... or apparent... in the subdued costumes that were there tonight.
“May I help you?” he asked. He wanted to add, “Who are you?” but decided that he would wait until after he had heard her voice.
“I just need to get this clean,” she replied as she continued swishing the garment through the running water.
Her voice did not identify her, but there was still something familiar about her. It was as if an old memory, perhaps even an ancient memory was stirring deep within the depths of his mind.
She lifted the dripping garment out of the tub, wrung it out with her hands, and draped it over the rod which held the shower curtain. “That will dry quickly,” she said as she turned to face Quarrie. Her wet, naked body gleamed in the bright light of the bathroom.
For one of the few times in his life, Quarrie Balfour was at a loss for words. Finally, after several stumbling attempts to speak he asked, “May I get you a robe?”
“Nakedness does not bother me,” she replied. Then she added, “Neither mine nor yours.”
He looked down, realizing that without his kilt he was naked, except for his socks, from the waist down. She walked toward him and pressed her body against his. An electric jolt went through his body and he found himself automatically pressing himself back against her naked flesh.
He was afraid at first that he might frighten her or push her backwards into the tub, but she stood strong and immobile as he pressed against her with all his might.
“Let’s go into the bedroom,” she said as she slowly began pushing him backwards with her wet, naked body. She continued pushing until he found himself seated on the edge of his bed.