Chapter 1

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?"