Jonas, Part One

by Knight of Passion

Story Codes: M/F, oral, first, size

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My stories are works of fiction, and should not be interpreted as
condoning illegal acts.  Be smart.

Please send comments, feedback, questions or criticism to
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Knight 
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The leaves flamed gold and red in the low autumnal sun, and the single-track road which meandered through the deep forest was cloaked in shadow. The seasons turned, and the timeless English countryside bore the change with grace and ease.

Suddenly, the silence was broken with the throaty roar of an engine, and, a heartbeat later, a car burst from the shadows. The powder-blue Audi TT took the corner too fast, and narrowly avoided the drainage ditch before flashing past the gates on to the drive. Twin arcs of gravel leapt high into the air as the car straightened. In the driver's seat, Hannah Maxwell swore bitterly and tried to stuff a sheaf of notes back into her briefcase while steering with her left hand. The clock on the dashboard informed her that eleven o'clock had come and gone, and she was running desperately, horribly late. Throwing the briefcase savagely into the passenger-side foot well, Hannah gripped the steering wheel firmly and twitched the Audi to the right, then stepped on the accelerator again.

Half a mile along the drive, and twenty seconds after passing the gate, Hannah crested a small rise and beheld her destination. Cavanagh House was a rambling 17th-century mansion surrounded by several acres of immaculate gardens. The honey-coloured stone was almost entirely covered by thick ivy, which only added to the air of timelessness and permanence which hung over the estate.

The Audi came to a halt by the main door, and Hannah all but ran up the steps, her briefcase clutched to her chest. She paused at the door to tuck errant strands of hair back behind her ears, and to straighten her skirt, then rang the bell. It swung open almost immediately, to reveal a man in his mid-fifties. "Good morning?" he asked in an impeccable accent, somehow packing the simple greeting with a lifetime supply of effortless superiority.

"Hannah Maxwell," Hannah replied, holding out a hand that the man regarded coolly. "I'm here to see -"

"Yes, he's expecting you. Come in, please." Clutching her bag in one hand and flicking her long, honey-blonde hair over her shoulder with the other, she followed the man into a cool, well-appointed hallway, and across a pristine marble floor, her heels clicking and echoing with every step.

"Is he -"

"I prefer not to answer questions, Miss," intoned the man, who, Hannah realised with a quiet satisfaction, was a half-inch shorter than she was. The man came to a halt beside an ornate oak door, and inclined his head a fraction of a degree. "In here, Miss. I shall bring refreshments shortly."

"Thank you," Hannah murmured, and, steeling herself, opened the door. Beyond lay an airy drawing room, where the ancient grandeur of Cavanagh House seemed to be softened and blended with a modern, relaxed atmosphere. Several low couches were clustered around the empty fireplace, and a large desk stood against one wall, bearing what seemed to be a state-of-the-art computer. On the far side of the room were arched French windows opening out onto a terrace and the garden beyond. Seated in one of a pair of comfortable chairs angled to look out at the view was a young man, in his mid-twenties, only a year or two older than Hannah herself. He stood, and Hannah's heart fluttered in her chest. He was, without question, the most beautiful man she had ever seen - tall, lean, with strong cheekbones and a confident, casual manner. She had seen him before, of course; had seen him so often that she knew every curve and hollow of his body as well as her own. Despite her anxiety regarding her late arrival, she felt a hot flush of warm desire.

"Come in. I'm Jonas Randall," he said with a warm smile, shaking her hand and indicating the deep, comfortable chair opposite his own.

"Hannah Maxwell," she replied, pleased that she had managed to remember her own name and get it out without stuttering or hesitating. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Mr. Randall."

"Jonas, please. I'll admit, I was surprised to be contacted by your office. I'm glad we could get the terms of the interview sorted out."

"As am I," replied Hannah with a shy smile. "You have a lovely home."

"Thank you. Not what you'd expect from a former porn actor, I imagine."

"Well, not exactly," Hannah confessed, placing her audio recorder on the low table next to her. "You must have made a lot of money." She paused, and her cheeks reddened slightly. "I'm sorry, that was gauche of me -"

"Please, don't think twice. Money makes the world go round, as they say: the porn world, doubly so" Jonas replied with an expressive shrug. "I made a decent stake, but not nearly enough for this place. It belongs to my wife. And I do have your word that my current whereabouts are one of the things which will not be referred to in your article, correct?"

"As we agreed," Hannah nodded, the paused. "I want to thank you personally, too, Jonas, for giving me this interview. Since you left the scene, a lot of people have missed your work. Even now, we get a dozen emails a week about you."

Jonas grinned boyishly. "Well, it's nice to know that I'm missed. You do understand, though, that these terms aren't negotiable? You won't reveal my location, and you won't reveal the identity of my wife?"

"Absolutely," said Hannah sincerely. "Although - well, never mind."

"Although what?" asked Jonas gently, then smiled again and picked up the cup of tea which lay on the table by his elbow. "Although you wonder why I would hide myself away from the world instead of being out there, capitalising on my somewhat dubious celebrity?"

"Well, yes. I don't mean to be rude, but -"

"I don't consider you rude at all, Miss Maxwell. The simple truth, unadorned and clumsy though it may be, is that I have no interest in that life. Not any more."

"May I ask why?"

Jonas chuckled softly. "Well, that's a long story. Luckily, it's exactly the story you came here to hear." He leaned back in his chair, and steepled his fingers thoughtfully. "And if you're sitting comfortably, I guess we should make a start."

* * * * *

My story - or at least, the part of my story that's interesting to your readers, Miss Maxwell - begins ten years ago. I was sixteen then, a scrawny kid trying to survive high school. I came into my height early, and I was already heading for six feet, but I wasn't exactly sporty - astronomy club was more attractive to me than the football team, if you know what I mean. I wasn't particularly popular, but I had some good friends, and a few of them even stuck by me through all the things that happened later. They were, with the benefit of hindsight, good days.

It was a Friday afternoon. Classes had finished at three o'clock, and I had spent an hour and a half in the library, studying furiously for a geometry examination that I was certain I was going to fail. Finally, exhausted and frustrated, I trudged through the silent corridors back to my locker. I stuffed my papers and textbooks into my bag, slung it over my shoulder, slammed the locker door shut, and turned to leave, never expecting that, in that moment, the course of my life was going to change forever.

There was a woman walking toward me, flanked by two men. The man on the left was short and burly, and was carrying a large video camera that obscured his face. The other was taller and slender, and was casually carrying a long pole topped with a fluffy microphone in the crook of his arm. I registered this much, and no more: my attention was fixed on the woman.

She was - well, you know Lady Jane, of course. Everybody does, now. But try and imagine how she looked to a sheltered, virginal sixteen year-old boy - big eyes, big breasts, long legs, and a swing in her hips that would make the Pope stiffen up. That day, she was wearing a short black leather skirt over black stockings; she had a black leather belt hanging round her hips, studded with steel rivets, and she walked on six-inch high heels like she was born in them. Those beautiful breasts, the most amazing I had ever seen, were squeezed together in a white mesh top that was slashed open from her throat to her waist, her cleavage deep and inviting. She was twenty years old, and she was a goddess.

I could tell you truthfully that I nearly came on the spot, but that's not even the half of it - I saw her once, and I fell in love with her.

"What's your name?" she breathed at me, sounding like all the angels of heaven.

I looked around, certain she could not be talking to me, then glanced at the camera. "Um, Jon - " I began, but the cameraman frowned.

"Answer her, not the camera, you dumb shit. Forget we're here."

I nodded, and cleared my throat. "Jon," I said again, trying to look the woman in her amazingly large, dark brown eyes. "That is, Jonas. Jonas Randall."

"How sweet. And are you a virgin, Jonas Randall?" she asked huskily.

"I don't -" I began, then glanced at the camera awkwardly. "Yeah," I said reluctantly. "Why?"

"Why?" the woman repeated with a melodic laugh. "Don't you know who I am, darling?"

"No," I stammered, too shocked to be tactful. "I've never seen you before in my life."

"Well, maybe there are some people left in the world who are pure and innocent," said the woman with a wink at the camera. "But not for long. You can call me Lady Jane, darling, and I like to fuck sexy virgin guys like you. Does that sound like fun?"

"I suppose -" I stammered, and she laughed again.

"You suppose?" she said, her tone teasing and intoxicating. "Don't you want to fuck me, Jonas Randall?"

I swallowed and, not trusting myself to speak, nodded. Her smile broadened, and she put her hands on my hips - I couldn't stop myself from staring down at the vast expanse of her magnificent cleavage, but she didn't seem to mind a bit. "Then let's fuck," she said, and, kissed me. I tried to kiss her back, but my lips were clammy and refused to respond. It didn't seem to matter though, because she broke the kiss, made a sexy growling sound deep in her throat, and turned back to the camera. "Let's go," she said hungrily.

The camera man nodded and lowered the lens, glancing at the guy carrying the microphone. "Alright?" he asked.

"All systems go," replied the second man. "Lets get this kid inside Jane before he collapses, eh?"

"Be nice," Jane said censoriously, then turned back to me as the men arranged their equipment. "Hi, Jonas. How are you?"

"Um... I'm fine," I replied hesitantly. "What's the - um, when you said we were going to -"

"Going to fuck? Oh, you're eager!" she said with a giggle that made my heart sing and my cock throb. "Where can we go? Somewhere private?"

I thought for a moment. "There's a bathroom at the end of the corridor," I said. "It'll be private."

"A bathroom?" said Jane thoughtfully. "What do you think, chaps? Feel like slumming it today?"

"Fine by me," said the camera man, squinting through the lens distractedly.

"Let's go then," said Jane, before winking at me, turning on her six-inch heel and walking away with a provocative twitch of her beautiful bottom. I swallowed again, trying desperately to marshal my thoughts into something approaching order, and moved to follow her, but my way was suddenly blocked by the man carrying the microphone. "Here," he said, handing me a clipboard stuffed with a thick sheaf of papers. "Contract stuff. The footage of your sexual encounter with Lady Jane is the sole property of Vixen Productions, blah blah blah, you're not getting paid but you will get fucked, blah blah blah, all rights reserved. Sign it and let's go."

"I stared dumbly at the clipboard. "This is a blue movie?"

The cameraman laughed. "Nope, we stopped making 'blue movies' in the seventies, mate. This is your honest-to-goodness hardcore porn. Jane's makin' a series: Teenage Fucks All Through The Night. Like the song, y'know?"

I nodded automatically, not understanding a word. "So people can buy this film -"

"Christ, mate, you're missing the chance of a lifetime. How often does a kid like you get to fuck a woman like Jane? Sign the bloody contract and get your arse down there."

I hesitated, but the taller man's expression turned grim, and I reconsidered. I scratched my signature across the blank line at the bottom of the page, without even making an effort to read it. Stupid, yes - but who can honestly say they would have done it differently? Apparently satisfied, the man with the microphone shoved the clipboard into his satchel, winked at me, and set off in pursuit of Jane. I followed after, feeling more than a little confused, my book-bag slung over one shoulder.

Jane waited for us in the senior boy's bathroom, a large echoing room with a half-dozen cubicles along the far wall, a row of urinals to the right and sinks to the left. She had tugged her white top down another couple of inches, and her breasts now threatened to burst free from their confinement. She was, if possible, even sexier than before, perhaps because of the contrast with the bathroom - in these sordid surroundings, her body was even more achingly beautiful. I couldn't believe this was happening. I couldn't believe it was real.

My bag slipped from my fingers and landed with a heavy thud on the tiled floor.

"So, this is Bill," Jane said, gesturing to the cameraman, "and this is Harry," with a wave at the man with the microphone. I nodded. "Now we all know each other." With a sexy swing of her hips, she stepped toward me, and kissed me, hot and soft and sweet and miraculous, right on the mouth. "So, Jonas Randall," she said slowly, running her index finger along my jawline, and down my throat to my chest, "let's fuck."

A gentle shove propelled me backwards into a cubicle, where I landed heavily on the toilet seat. In a flash, Lady Jane was on her knees in front of me, her fingers scrabbling at my belt buckle and zipper. My eyes rolled back in my head as her hand slipped into my boxer shorts and made first contact with my hardening prick.

She froze.

"Ah, fuck it," groaned Bill from outside the cubicle, unsuccessfully trying to manoeuvre his camera into the cubicle behind Jane. "Darlin', we're going to have to go again, I can't see a damn thing."

I opened my eyes and looked down at Jane, but she still had not moved. Her gaze was fixed on my groin, and her chest was rising and falling rapidly under the thin mesh top. Her fingers, warm and gentle on my flesh, trembled a little.

"Uh, Jane? Earth to - aw, fuck, has the kid squirted already?" asked Bill. Jane didn't respond, and he swore under his breath. "Pack it up, Harry, the kid's shot his load -"

"I haven't," I protested, but Bill merely shook his head and turned away in disgust.

"He hasn't," Jane said softly, then looked up at me with a broad smile on her lips. "Holy shit," she whispered, her cut-glass accent incredibly arousing. "You're something special, aren't you?"

"What's he done?" asked Harry curiously, trying to get the microphone into the cubicle over our heads.

"Look at this," said Jane proudly, pulling my semi-rigid cock from my boxers and cradling it in her hands. Now, at the time, my only knowledge of male anatomy came from biology text-books and the odd glimpse of my friends' cocks in the showers after a hard game of football, so I had no idea how exceptional my cock was, and still is. It is, I guess you could say, the main reason for my subsequent success.

In any case, they gaped at my cock. Bill swore again, and Harry shook his head in surprise. Jane smiled softly and licked her lips, running her inquisitive fingertips along the foot-long length of semi-erect penis, squeezing the thickness as if to check that it was ripe. "Fuck me," Bill muttered, then trained his camera on me once more. "You still want to go ahead, Jane?"

"Oh, I want this cock," Jane said with obvious relish. "I've never - fucking hell, Billy, we're going to make a fortune from this tape."

"What are you talking about?" I demanded, angry at being discussed. "What's the problem?"

"You've got a willy like a race-horse, you fucking idiot," laughed Bill crudely. "I think our little Janey's a bit cock-struck."

I expected her to reply, but her gaze never left my penis. "Nothing complicated," she said in a soft, half-whisper. "I don't even know if this thing'll fit... Bill," she said, raising her voice again, "are we ready to go?"

Bill shrugged and stood at the entrance to the cubicle, peering over her shoulder at my groin and adjusting the focus on his camera. "Yeah, this'll do. In your own time, Jane."

Without a word, she simply attacked my cock with her wonderful mouth. The first contact, a slow, seductive lick from base to tip, took what seemed like an eternity, and she had to shift her grip as my penis swelled to it's full length. Breathlessly, she began to kiss and slurp at the tip, pulling back my foreskin and hungrily attacking the moist head. I was, needless to say, in heaven - and, when she reached down and savagely tore the mesh top, releasing her wonderful tits to slap gently against my quivering cock, I was lost - the first jet of cum splashed audibly on Jane's throat, and she gasped in delight as further jets of hot semen spattered every inch of her exposed skin. I had never, during masturbation, cum as hard or as generously as I did then, the merest sight of this erotic angel coaxing every drop of cum from my heavy balls.

Eventually, the torrent had subsided, and Jane released her grip on my shaft.

"Still hard?" she asked, and I nodded, speechless. "God, that's why I love teenage boys," she hissed, and got to her feet, thick globs of my creamy cum covering her face and tits, and turned her back to me, lifting her short skirt to reveal that her pussy was uncovered and vulnerable. I groaned, deep in my throat, as she carefully positioned her legs to either side of mine, then slowly lowered herself down, the slippery end of my cock spreading the lips of her pussy wide apart. She grunted, and the first inch of shaft popped into her cunt - I groaned as loudly as she did, her pussy struggling to accommodate my thick cock, but she twitched her hips to the side and sank another three or four inches onto me.

"Fuck me," muttered Bill, adjusting the focus again and trying to get closer.

"No, fuck me," Jane gasped, and spread her legs wider, giving me a perfect view of her tight pink arse-hole, and her stretched pussy-lips sliding down my steel-hard dick. Jane bit her lip hard, lifting her hips and then pushing down again, each time taking more of me. My cock throbbed in the tight grip of her cunt, and I knew it would not be long before I came again. The thought of filling this woman's body with my cum ignited a new passion in me, and I pulled hard on her hips, trying to fill her more deeply, more completely than she had ever felt. The extra pressure forced her further onto me, and tore a wordless cry from her lips. At the same moment, she thrust herself down on me viciously, finally swallowing the last inch of my prick with an exultant cry, and then lifted up again, before driving down even harder - how her body was capable of accepting my cock, I had no idea, but she fucked me eagerly and hungrily, her expression one of anguished ecstasy. She moved faster, then, her perfect cunt devouring my cock then reluctantly releasing it, each thrust harder, each thrust deeper.

How long we fucked, I could not say - by the end, it was as wild and animalistic as any sex I have had since, the two of us tearing at each other's clothes, desperate for the other's flesh. And then, as Jane ground her hips into me in a circular motion that drove my cock into the very deepest parts of her body, her pussy contracted suddenly and she cried out. I had no idea what was happening, of course, as she shuddered and screamed her way through her orgasm, but I responded eagerly enough to the new, impossible tightness of her cunt, and, after pounding a few last, savage strokes into her, felt my cum boil into her. Further thought was impossible; it was all I could do to hold her to me, and surrender myself to our shared joy.

Finally, our orgasms exhausted, she half-fell, half-stumbled forward, my cock dragged from her cunt with a wet slurp. A rivulet of sticky juices trickled down her thighs as she leaned against the cubicle wall, fighting for breath. I reached for her, and my hands tightened on her hips, pulling her onto my lap, my wet, softening cock slapping against her thigh, and I kissed her deeply, passionately. She smelled of our sex and tasted of heaven. I loved her.

"Done," said Bill with satisfaction, and lowered his camera.

Jane kissed me once more, then got unsteadily to her feet. Her stockings were streaked with my cum and her juices, her top was ripped open to the waist and did nothing at all to conceal her magnificent breasts, and her face and chest were still coated with a drying layer of my jism, but she was beautiful. I watched her try and straighten her clothing, then she laughed. "I must look like the last person to leave an orgy!" she said. "We'd better get out of here. Will you be alright, Jonas?"

"Yeah," I replied, unable to express myself more clearly.

"Good. You were - God, you were amazing."

"You too," I said gallantly, struggling to stand. Harry leaned his microphone against the wall and wrapped a long raincoat around Jane's shoulders, which she accepted without a word. Bill gathered up the rest of the equipment, then winked at me again, and left. Harry followed after, and then Jane - but she paused at the door, delved into the pocket of the raincoat, and pulled out a slip of cardboard and a pen. Leaning against the door-frame, she wrote something quickly on the card, then half-ran across the room, pressed the card into my hand, and kissed me once more. I tried to respond, but the next thing I knew, the door was swinging closed behind her, and she was gone.

I pulled myself upright, and held the card Jane had given me up to the light. It was a business card for Vixen Productions, with their phone and fax numbers and a postal address. On the reverse of the card, however, was something that made my heart leap and my exhausted cock twitch: Jane had written, in impeccable handwriting, her telephone number, and, beneath it, "Call me SOON".

I closed my eyes again, my senses still filled with her, and soon I was dreaming of my beautiful Lady Jane.

* * * * *

Hannah exhaled slowly, and brushed her hair back from her face. Jonas' story has aroused her more than she had thought possible, and her body now ached for the rough attentions of a well-endowed man...

"Well, I'd say that's enough for now," said Jonas softly, and stood. "I have a few calls to make, Miss Maxwell, and then perhaps we can have a bite to eat and carry on this afternoon?"

"That'd be wonderful," Hannah sighed dreamily, then flushed. "I mean, of course, Mr. Randall. I appreciate your time."

Jonas smiled softly at her, then nodded firmly. "Alright. I'll be back. If you need anything, just ring for Graves, he'll make sure you're comfortable. Excuse me."

He crossed the room quickly and vanished through the door before Hannah could formulate a response. Instead, she sank back into the comfortable chair and closed her eyes.

And when, some fifteen minutes later, the butler opened the door, he found her asleep, a happy smile on her lips, her nipples erect and proud through the thin material of her blouse. He shook his head, smiled to himself, and pulled the door closed gently. Let her sleep, he thought.

There was, after all, a lot more to come.


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