by Ashe Barker
I don’t honestly care whether we’re both naked or both fully clothed, but there’s no way I’m going to even attempt a serious conversation with our respective states of dress—or undress—so unbalanced.
He doesn’t move to oblige me, so I punch him in the ribs. “Either you get naked or I get dressed. And then, only then, do we talk.”
“Jesus, Eva. You’re just too fucking bossy to make a decent sub. Christ knows what I ever saw in you.” Grumbling to himself, he quickly gets his shirt off, soon followed by his jeans and shorts. I note somewhat in passing that his erection is still pretty impressive, or maybe that’s more or less his permanent state. Or maybe it’s just his usual state around me—what a lovely thought. Quite encouraging really.
Throwing himself back down alongside me, he’s still grumbling. “Bloody women, never satisfied.”
“Oh, I’m perfectly satisfied. For now. I’ll let you know when I’m not.” The worm is turning, it seems. Nathan seems to approve because he is kissing me. Again. At last he raises his head to look into my eyes, and rubs his nose against mine playfully.
“I was so scared you’d have left already. Scared I might not get back in time to stop you. Christ. I might never have found you again. I don’t even have your address in London.”
“My mother’s address. Remember. And you could have found me through the agency. But anyway, I wasn’t going to London. I was going to Black Combe.” I run my fingers through his long, soft, gorgeous hair and at his start of surprise I decide to put him out of his misery. “For my violin and the rest of my stuff. And then I was going to look for somewhere to rent. Like I said, I’m staying. In Yorkshire.”
“You don’t need a place to rent. You have somewhere to stay. Black Combe.”
I push myself up on one elbow to look down at him, more than a little taken aback. “Only until the end of my contract, strictly speaking. That’s about three more weeks. Are you suggesting I stay on? Why? Earlier you seemed so dead set against me moving in.”
He reaches up to run the backs of his fingers down my cheek, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “Not move in exactly, well not like you might think. It’s awkward, Eva.” Slipping his hand to the back of my neck he tightens his hold as I begin to pull away, not wanting to hear him tell me again that he doesn’t want me, or at least that he doesn’t want me there. In his home.
“Just listen, will you?” He pulls me back down, tight up against his chest. “Black Combe is Rosie’s home. I’m her father. She needs safety, security. She needs to know she can always trust me, that she comes first with me. That’s just how it has to be with kids. So, I never take women, girlfriends, there. Never.”
“No Dom-sub stuff at Black Combe then?” I ask innocently. “No whips or canes? No nipple clamps? No butt plugs?”
“God, no!”
“Pity, could have been interesting. But I understand the situation, so, that’s agreed. I’m so glad we got that clear. And I’m assuming no girlfriend stuff either? No kissing? No cuddling? No stripping me to the waist and sucking my nipples until I have an orgasm on the kitchen table?”
“Shit, Eva, that was different.”
I giggle. He’s so easy to wind up sometimes. “Calm down, idiot. I care about Rosie too. I know we need to be discreet. And I somehow think I’m going to be better at discretion than you. I’m Miss Inhibitions 2012 remember?”
He pats my bum, and I get the distinct impression he’s thinking of doing rather more. I need to go easy on the teasing. For now, though, he’s fine. We’re fine. “Yeah, you probably will be. Discreet’s your middle name, Miss Byrne.”
“And there’s such a lot in a name, with you, isn’t there?”
“Excuse me?”
“My name. Or rather, names. You have different names for me according to what I am. At that moment. What I am to you. And how you are feeling, how you want me to feel…”
Glancing up I can see his genuine bewilderment written all over his gorgeous face. “What are you talking about, Eva?”
“Ah, so now I’m Eva. Eva’s my girlfriend name. Or when we’re out in public. You call me Eva when you’re angry too, or being serious like now. I’m not sure I always like being Eva.” He’s silent, waiting, still at a total loss it would seem, so I continue.
“Miss Byrne, or Dr Byrne when you remember, is my teacher name. That’s what you call me at home, at Black Combe. And it’s my sub name. You always call me Miss Byrne when you have a whip in your hand.” I shudder involuntarily. “Miss Byrne is the me you hurt. And often she’s the me you fuck, especially when it’s not the gentle sort of fucking. Being Miss Byrne scares me. And excites me too.”
I hear his muffled “Christ” in my hair, but there’s more I need, want to say.
“And then there’s Angel. I love being Angel. Angel is the me you like, really like, really care for. Like my dad did. And you call me Angel when we make love, when you come. And sometimes when I come. And that’s not like my dad. That’s just you.”
I wait, silently, for him to respond.
“Jesus, Eva…”
“Eva?”
“Eva. Miss Byrne. Angel. You’re clearly a woman of many parts, sweetheart. And too damned bright for me, I reckon. Okay, so you got me sussed on all that name stuff. And while we’re on the super-sensitives, having this little heart to heart, are you going to tell me now about Oxford? About why you left?”
I stiffen, my heart plummeting as I get ready to do battle again, but he just drops it this time, goes on. “No? Okay then, if we’re not going to discuss the past let’s talk about the future. About your plans. You’ll be living at Black Combe, that’s settled. As some sort of girlfriend, no doubt—we’ll have to work that out. With Rosie. But what about work? Somehow I can’t see you being satisfied doing nothing for long. And with all your many and various qualifications you’re not going to be looking for a job in Oakworth bread shop.”
“I like bread.”
“Eva.” His warning growl suggests I need to get serious. And, in fairness, I have been giving this some thought.
“Okay, I could teach. I need to get a teaching qualification to work in a school, but that shouldn’t be a problem. Like I say, qualifications come easy to me. Or I could do more private tuition—maths, music, languages. Or I could do translations.”
Rolling onto his back, one arm around me, the other behind his head, he’s obviously thinking about my prospects. “Hmm, I don’t know about the teaching stuff, not my field, but I’d say there’s a market for interpretation and translation in business, especially if your mathematics skills can be applied to commercial accountancy and finance. I’d employ you.”
“You’d just spend all your time fucking me in your office, or bending me over your conference table if I got my sums wrong. I’m not working for you!”
His low chuckle and gentle caress across my breasts suggest to me I’m right not to contemplate joining Darke Associates as a serious career move, but maybe there’s a niche in the business world I could fill. It’s a new direction for me, but might be worth considering…
He tips my chin up with his finger to hold my gaze, serious again. “Well I’ve got a use for your Turkish as we’ve already established. But apart from helping out me and Ahmet, I suspect there’s not a great deal of demand for Turkish. Do you speak any other languages, Eva?”
“Yes, one or two.” My guarded tone seems to have caught his interest and he’s probing.
“Well, which is it? One? Or two? Or more, perhaps?” My dropped gaze gives me away—he knows I’m evading and he’s on it straight away. “More then. It is more, isn’t it? Which languages do you speak? Come on, Eva, spill.”
“French. And German.” He says nothing, just waiting. He knows there’s more. “Turkish, obviously. And Russian.”
“Russian? Interesting choice. Any more? Eva?”
Resigned I roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling. “Fluently? Those I mentioned already, plus Mandarin Chinese, Spa
nish, Arabic, Polish, Italian and Greek. I’m also reasonably proficient in Latin and Ancient Greek. And I can get by in probably a couple of dozen other languages, if I have to.”
The silence in the room is deafening, broken at last by a low whistle. “Shit, that’s some repertoire, Miss Byrne.” Now he’s the one leaning up on one elbow, looking down at me, and he waits until I turn my head to meet his gaze. “How’d you ever get the time to learn all those? And why bother?”
“Why? Because I just can. And it doesn’t take long. I just have an aptitude for it, I suppose, it comes naturally, very little effort required. And some languages are very similar to others—French, Italian, Spanish, for example. You learn one, you learn ‘em all.”
“I think you undersell your skills, Miss Byrne. You just rattled off—what was it nine, ten different languages you claim to be fluent in? As well as English.”
“What do you mean ‘claim’? I bloody well am!”
“I know, I know, don’t get your knickers in a twist. So to speak…”
More stroking and patting my bare bum and I let my hackles settle back down again.
He continues, his tone serious now. “I didn’t mean that. I know you’re bloody brilliant and I believe you can do anything you set your mind to, quite frankly. So, what’s your method for learning languages? Do you join a class? Go live abroad for a while? What?”
“Both. I learnt French and German at school originally, but only really became fluent by going to those countries. I learnt Greek and Turkish by spending a month in Cyprus.”
“A month? You mastered two separate languages in a month?”
“Like I said. Aptitude. I developed verbal fluency first, then literacy. Turkish and Greek both use different alphabets from English so it’s more complicated. Same goes for Russian and Mandarin. And Arabic, obviously. For me it’s always verbal first, then the written form.” I stop, peeping up at him to see how he’s taking all this. His face is a mask of wonder. He shakes his head slowly, but still says nothing. Suddenly it’s important to me that I try to explain, make him understand.
“When I’m starting from scratch, a completely new language like, say, Urdu would be to me, I start by reading up on the grammatical rules, the syntax, so I know the theory of it. Then I sort of collect the vocabulary, usually through the international media. I think of it as harvesting. I find listening to native speakers is much better than formal language training, at least for me. Once I get the first few words and phrases sorted out the rest is easy. I start to build my frame of reference and it just falls into place from there. I fill in the gaps from what I hear, and as my vocabulary builds up I apply the grammatical rules I learnt at the beginning of the process.”
“But if you don’t understand any of it, how do you start? And how can you remember all the grammar right from the beginning. And apply it correctly? Don’t you need a teacher, someone to practise on?” He is frowning, bewildered, and in fairness to me it really is very difficult to explain all this to someone with no linguistic training. But I’m determined to try.
“There are some words that are more or less universal. That means they appear in just about every language in more or less unchanged form. Often they’re technical words such as ‘telephone’, ‘airport’, or maybe to do with travel and tourism such as ‘taxi’, and ‘hotel’. Those words always leap out at me, and from them, well, the phrases they appear in really—I can usually identify the definite and indefinite articles. That’s ‘the’ and ‘a’ in English, and the conjunctives such as ‘but’, and ‘and’.”
I realise I’m getting technical and stop, chewing my lip nervously. Trust me to go off on one and get boring. It’s the stargazing night all over again.
“Go on, Eva. I think I’m following you so far.” I risk a peep, and his eyes certainly don’t have that bored, glazed look I’m so used to seeing when I try to explain my ‘talent’. “How do you get from there to being a fluent speaker? And can you always do it in a month?”
“Easily, if I don’t have any distractions. And it’s not just speaking. I do reading and writing too as a rule. I just tune my TV, radio or whatever into the right broadcaster and listen in, absorbing the vocabulary and usage. It helps if I don’t hear or need to use any other language during that period, if I can focus my undivided attention. Within a few hours it starts dropping into place, and within days I’m there. And when I’ve mastered the verbal fluency I usually tackle the written form. But really, once you know a language, reading it is just a matter of decoding print. An unfamiliar alphabet is a challenge, but it’s just a matter of learning it, assigning sounds to symbols. Simple phonetics really.”
“Doesn’t sound remotely simple to me. It’s bloody amazing. And something tells me you’ve done this little caper of yours a lot more than just ten times to have got it to such a fine art. So, honestly now, Eva—how many languages do you have? Not fluent necessarily, but workable, a functioning ability?”
“I don’t know.” At his grunt of exasperated disbelief I rush on. I want him to believe me. “Really, I don’t. I don’t bother to count. But, I suppose it’s loads. Dozens.” My voice small, I hesitate, wondering what he’s going to make of this, of me, now. “So there you have it—I’m the nerdy little specky four-eyed creep who sits at the back of the class. The one whose homework always gets copied but no one invites home for tea, who never gets invited to birthday parties.”
“Loads. Yeah, I’ll bet it’s loads. And I prefer to describe you as my sexy little boffin. You know, Eva, clever women are a real turn-on for most men. Definitely for this one. And you’re one seriously clever woman so stop hiding down there, blushing like the little virgin we both know you’re not. Well, not any longer anyway. Hold your head up and be proud of what you can do.” Sitting up, he pulls me up to kneel in front of him, and reaching for a box of tissues beside the bed he wipes my face. “Stop crying, love, there’s no need to cry. Not over this anyway. And just for the record, I reckon you’ll have no trouble at all making a living, here in Yorkshire or anywhere else in the world. You’re an international superstar. A human Babel fish.”
“A what?”
“Ah, your not too classical education didn’t stretch to The Hitchhiker’s Guide then? I’ll lend you my copy. But seriously, from what you say, you could go anywhere in the world, anywhere at all, and within hours be understanding the language and start to make yourself understood. This ‘gift’ of yours is gold dust. It really is. Not just because of the commercial applications—what about the military uses, and international diplomacy. You, young lady, are a highly merchantable commodity.”
I’m not convinced. “I’m a freak. Some sort of curiosity. In the old days I’d have been in a circus, or burnt as a witch.”
“Well, think yourself lucky this is the twenty-first century then. We’re enlightened.” Then, in one of his mercurial mood changes, he drops back down to make himself comfortable against the pillows. “And just because you’re such a boffin, and I’m such an enlightened child of the twenty-first century, don’t think you’re getting out of making the tea. It’s your turn. I take one sugar. And don’t forget the Bourbons.”
“Chauvinist…” I dump the box of tissues on his chest as I grin and slide off the bed starting to hunt around for my clothes.
“Naked, Eva. We both stay naked, remember. We’re not done talking yet. So do be careful not to splash.”
So, gloriously, unashamedly nude, I go to put the kettle on.
* * * *
“Can I ask you something?”
We’re both sitting cross-legged on the bed, a tray of tea and biscuits between us on the duvet. It seems totally natural to be chatting to Nathan while he rakes his appreciative gaze across my naked breasts, my belly, my smooth, hairless and highly visible pussy. I’m doing my own share of admiring too—he really does have an amazing body. Hard, sculpted, athletic, finely honed pectorals and a six-pack to match. His erection is jutting at me and I long to take it in my hands, or m
aybe my mouth, stroke his shaft, cup his balls… I know it won’t be long before we make love again, but first, I’d like to satisfy my curiosity. And feed my insecurities.
He glances at me, quickly swallows the last of his Bourbon biscuit before mumbling his reply, “Mmm, what?”
“Can I ask you about your wife?”
“My wife? What wife?”
“Your wife. Rosie’s mother. I suppose…” I take a deep breath. “I suppose you must have loved her very much…”
He hesitates. At first I think he’s going to refuse to answer me at all. Then, “No. Not really.”
“But she was your wife. You were married to her. You must have loved her.”
“She—Louisa—was my wife, briefly. I liked her. I cared about her. I was sorry when she died. But I didn’t love her.”
This is beyond me. “But you adopted her child. I don’t understand…”
“I loved Rosie. I always have. Adopting her was a no-brainer when Louisa died.”
“But…”
“It’s complicated, Eva.”
“So is my linguistic ability, but I tried to explain it to you. I’m beginning to think this disclosure thing is very one-way.”
“Fair point, I suppose, but this is personal, Eva. Private.”
I arch an unimpressed eyebrow. “Oh really, like that ever stops you…!”
“Okay, okay, I’ll tell you about Louisa. But this is confidential, sensitive. Rosie knows some of it but not all. You’ll understand why soon enough. I need you to promise me you’ll respect my wishes on this, love.”
I nod, and after carefully placing the tray on the floor beside the bed I lie down next to Nathan who is arranging the pillows behind us. He holds out an arm and I snuggle into him.
“Louisa was my sub. Occasionally.”
I couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d told me his dead wife was Mother Teresa and Princess Diana rolled into one. “Your sub. A sub—like me? You married a sub!”
“Well, not quite like you. Louisa was a damned good sub and you, sweetheart, are simply not. You’re sexy and exciting and bloody lovely. Most of the time. But submissive—hardly. You do try hard, though, and you have other obvious attractions so I put up with you.” He tips my chin up to plant a quick kiss on my mouth, his tender smile and warm gaze emphasising the irony of his words, before he continues drily, “And you do get full marks for effort.”
