The Washing Woman - Halloween Story

This is the story the pixies brought me this year. It isn't as sexy as most stories the pixies bring me, but it is rich in Scottish history and tradition. This short story is rather sad and involves a natural death. The pixies also thought it was sad. They were crying as they gave it to me.

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WARNING! This warning is possibly not needed for this particular story, but I am including it because it is needed for most of my stories. If you decide to read other of my stories make sure that you read the disclosures and warnings at the beginning of each story.

All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life.

All characters involved in sexual activity in this story are over the age of 18. If you are under the age of 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.

Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article. This story is copyright (c) 2023 by The Technician.

Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this story for personal, non-commercial use. Production of multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly forbidden.

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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.

"Let me take those off you," she said with a smile as she knelt before him and began to lower his wool socks to his ankles and then slip them off his feet.

When she rose slightly and began to loosen his shirt he grabbed instinctively at something just under his right shoulder. "Oh, yes," she said with a slight laugh, "this is your house. You wear your sgian-dubh concealed beneath your armpit rather than in the top of your sock."

Quarrie pulled a small black knife from a special pocket in the shirt protected by his armpit. As he displayed the small, black knife to the woman he said, "This is not a sgian-dubh. It is a sgian-achlais, the true Scottish dagger." Then with a smile he continued, "This has been in my family for many generations. It is a real knife, not that stylized symbol that modern Scotts shove into their socks."

He pulled the knife from its jewel-encrusted sheath and said, "This knife was a Scotsman's constant companion. It was always well-protected here. He slapped his right shoulder with his left hand. As a sign of trust when entering another's home, you would pull your knife from its pocket, but you would not give it up. Instead, you would push it into the top of your sock."

He slid the knife back into its sheath and said, "It is best to return this to its sheath."

Then he pushed the bed sheets aside and pulled the woman onto the bed with him, saying, "And that is not the only knife that needs to be sheathed tonight." He paused and then said, "If you are willing."

The woman did not answer, but instead began stroking his chest and nuzzling into him.

"Slowly, slowly," he said as she kissed his neck. "We want to make this last."

He reached down to stroke her breasts and tweak her nipples. Her breasts were rather small, but well-formed. They seemed to swell slightly as his hands continued to wander over them and her nipples hardened and rose to his touch.

As his hands continued to roam over her beautiful body, he could begin to smell the scent of woman, a scent he had not had within his bed chamber for some time. And he could feel the hardness of his manhood pressing against her leg with an intensity that earlier tonight seemed like only a memory.

To Quarrie's surprise, she suddenly pushed him over onto his back and swung her leg over his body. She lifted herself and with one downward move impaled herself on his cock. She then sat there slowly grinding herself into his groin with her hands pressed hard against his chest.

He reached up and continued to play with her breasts and pinch and tweak her nipples. She murmured her approval and slowly swayed her body from side to side to heighten the sensations.

She was very skilled and kept the pace of her rocking and swaying at just the right level to take him very slowly higher and higher and higher. When he began to writhe beneath her body, she suddenly stiffened as she drove herself hard down onto his prick. She keened softly as he erupted within her. Then she sat with her head back and her eyes closed, rocking softly back and forth.

Finally she took a deep breath and gave a sigh. "I really should be going," she said, looking down into Quarrie's eyes. "It is nearly midnight."

"What is your hurry?" he asked. Then, as she lifted herself up off of his now deflating manhood he asked, "What is your name?"

She seemed to ignore him and instead walked into the bathroom and returned with the white garment. "It should be dry now," she said as she set it on the bed.

"Is your dress dry already?" he asked, still lying on the bed.

"This isn't my dress," she answered. "It is your funeral shroud."

She began slowly arranging the bed sheets at the end of the bed, carefully folding them down so that they formed a band across the bottom of the bed. Quarrie, meanwhile, looked at her in wonder. Was this a dream?

"I guess I can tell you my name now," she said softly. "My name is Bean-nighe, but many Scots call me the Washing Woman or the Woman at the Ford."

Quarrie gasped as he recognized who this was. His look of wonder suddenly turned to terror as he could feel the pressure building in his chest from the heart attack that had begun perhaps a few minutes ago... or perhaps while Bean-nighe rode him to climax. His body stiffened and arched against the bed as the pain began to overwhelm his body. After a few minutes he fell back silent against the bed.

The staff found his body the next morning. It was obviously a heart attack. No foul play was suspected. But the one thing which they, and the police, and the coroner, could not understand was that all of the bed sheets had been neatly folded at the end of the bed. The pillows were stacked on a nearby chair. And Quarrie Balfour's body was naked except for an ancient linen cloth which was tucked securely around his body.

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END OF STORY

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