Ciana Rose's Erotic Stories


Mr. Jonathan

P. T. Krys

All Rights Reserved



One week. All-inclusive. Twelve thousand dollars.


That's the way he explains it to her. He, her new master, Mister Jonathan, graying mottled hair cropped tight to the sides of his skull, short, exclamatory stalks on top. Wiry, tall, arms thin, muscular along lateral lines like a bicyclist or diver. Eyes hauntingly everywhere, all over her, without looking directly. Extrapolating, building, re-composing her. Knowing her without having to see.

She listens, nodding in mute concentration. She, Norah Traube, forty-seven year old mother of one, divorced, the full marketing executive package in charcoal Helena Jorgensen suit fresh from the tailor. Out of the office early today to make this meeting blocked out as personal time on her calendar. Preparing for vacation is all that she has said. An easy enough deception.

Norah Traube is leaving for one week. It's been two years since she's had any real time away. Long enough, Jay DeLeon, her CEO, mentor, and outsourced lover, has said.

To which she's replied, yes, boss, giving him that toss of the head that tells him everything and nothing all at the same time, making his cock rise with a Pavlovian urgency. Because that's what it's really all about: those wide, penetrating eyes and high, angular cheeks framed by a short trademark thatch of unruly hair.

"Twelve thousand, it's a lot of money for just one week. But this is not a vacation," Mister Jonathan drills into her with a chilling serenity. "This will change you. Are you ready for that? Are you ready to be changed?"

"No," Norah answers, "I am not ready. Change has always come to me. I have never chased it."

Mister Jonathan's granite mouthline cracks slightly, without resorting to a smile. From what he can see of her, he likes this Norah Traube. Not that it matters. He doesn't have to like her, or any of them, for that matter. It is not an occupational requirement.

"You will hate me. Perhaps badly enough to fall in love with me," he says without arrogance or malice. "You are getting married, I hear."

"Yes, to Jay DeLeon, the owner of my company."

"So, why are you here?"

"Well, it is actually about Jay," she answers with a sardonic lilt. "His holding me down. Restraining me. Calling me things I would never have accepted under any other circumstance. Making me say things. Making me beg for him, for sex, like a dog under the table for scraps."

"Do you like it?"

"Yes, more than I might have imagined."

Mister Jonathan arches back in his chair, somehow opulent even within the frame of its strict Quaker lines. "So, what do you want me to do?"

"Teach me. How to be controlled, used in the manner to which I would like to become better accustomed. You see, I don't want to have to learn this whole new dance one step at a time."

She pauses, the idea supply suddenly, inexplicably exhausted. All she knows is that she cannot believe she has let it get this far. Still, she maintains the illusion that she is in control, that because she is the client, the one paying for services, she is the one calling the shots.

Mister Jonathan picks up on this easily enough, musing how women like Norah Traube, those of power and means, are both his most willful, yet ultimately, willing supplicants.

"Have you told Jay you are here?"

"Yes, he was the one who told me about you. He said I might find you intriguing. Addictive, actually. That was the word I believe he used."

Mister Jonathan trains his gunboat gaze upon her without even the hint of a smile now. "Well, I am nothing like your Jay, Miss Traube. Up to this point, he has only been playing with you, toying with your affections. I do not toy. With anything."

Once more, his intent is not to be arrogant or malicious, just truthful. "Make no mistake, a week from now, you may or may not want to marry this man. I take no responsibility for that. Any decision you make is yours and yours alone. I will teach you what you want, but what you learn is up to you."

Eyeing a point on Mister Jonathan's forehead to avoid the impregnation of his eyes, Norah sucks in her breath. This is the jumping off point, like the one she used to reach at the edge of the high board in high school diving competition. Now, once again, here she is, balancing out over the uncertain shimmering of the water below, as Mister Jonathan delivers his instructions.

"You will do whatever I tell you, without question or comment, no matter how perverse or humiliating. Do you understand?"

"Y-yes, I do," Norah stammers, feeling herself spring upward, lightly, the way it was so many years ago. Hanging there in perfect position, height, form. Suspended in feathery animation before descending, unfolding, straightening, yielding to the inevitability of falling, the way she does right here, right now in front of Mister Jonathan, plunging into the distaff reality of her own making.

"From now on," Mister Jonathan continues seamlessly, "you will be subject to my every whim and use, without notice or consent. You will walk naked on a leash at my command. Eat from a bowl on the floor, if I so desire. Expose yourself both in private and public, where and whenever I choose.

Of course, you are always free to terminate our arrangement without discussion or explanation. All you have to do is say the word, "mirai." It is Japanese and means a happy, rewarding future. Say that word and that is the condition to which you will be returned."

Norah nods again as her eyes finally lock onto his, and she sinks deep into herself, with only one thought remaining. Run. Tear yourself away before your life retreats, before it fades too far, like an old photograph or gravestone, to recognize. But she is interrupted by Mister Jonathan, who knows full well the resistance she is facing within herself.

"Are you wearing pantyhose?"

"No, Mister Jonathan."

"Are you wearing panties?"

"Yes, Mister Jonathan."

"Then take them off, Slut Norah."

Slut Norah. Her name from now on, even as her world abruptly dissolves at the crack of Mister Jonathan's palm landing upon his desktop with such a thunderous clap it jerks her frozen fingers from clutching at the thin-stripped thong beneath her skirt.

"For such a willing wannabe, you have no goddamned idea how to take off your clothes, do you?" he roars.

No one has ever talked to her this way before, so she wants to say something, to respond, but any word, any sound she might make is just a cruel hairs-breadth out of reach.

"Turn around," Mister Jonathan commands before Norah can fully regain her facilities, "ass to me."

A compliant pause.

"Now, raise you skirt. Slowly."

His words make her shudder like a raw wet wind. But she does as she is told, knowing that if she does not, all there is left is that little Japanese word, and she is done. Which only begs the question, how can you ever truly be done with yourself?

"Bend over so that your skirt stays up, Slut Norah. Arch your ass out to me and reach back for the panties. Yes, that's right, now pull them down and let them drop to the floor. Are you ready?"

"I ..." Her breath catches, not understanding exactly what it is she is supposed to be ready for.

"Well, I guess you need a little more time to think about that."

He moves from behind his desk. Bracing herself, she flinches. Waiting, though there is nothing to wait for because Mister Jonathan merely passes without acknowledgement.

Involuntarily, she begins to straighten so that she can look up and see him.

"Don't move," he growls mercilessly and leaves her.

Slut Norah wants to move, to cry, but does nothing, says nothing, for she is determined that she will stay there for as long as it takes in that exact position, the one in which he has placed her. So, nothing comes out until the laying on of Mister Jonathan's hand upon her buttock a seeming eternity later when, at last, he returns and she issues an unsanctioned shriek at his touch.

"Tell me, what would you like most right now? What would you wish for?"

Slut Norah knows, but, again, she cannot find the words, the holy fucking expression for it.

"So, Slut Norah, after coming all this way to give yourself to me, you have no depraved wishes? No wicked, unforgivable sins?"

Mister Jonathan's hand descends sharply against Slut Norah's flesh, the clap reverberating throughout the room. The pain itself, though, does not arrive until a moment later when it radiates through nerve and sinew in a tidal surge. Intimately familiar with how Slut Norah's body circuitry works, Mister Jonathan lets the current flow fully through her, all the way to her fingertips, her toes, before striking her again, this time harder.

Slut Norah opens her mouth and something she cannot wholly define finally comes out. Something like a wail, a scream, an endless, hapless lament which she cannot really hear, but knows is surely there.

Her Master, the one to whom she has relinquished her body, mind and spirit, he gives no quarter, knowing that there is none to give. He merely spaces his blows far enough apart for her to feel and absorb the incandescence of each one until she is misled over and over into thinking she can take it. Then, there is always the one after that, and the one after that, until eventually, she becomes so wrapped in an endless sheet of torment that she sinks down into a place where it does not make her suffer anymore.

Eventually, the thrashing does stop and Mister Jonathan's fingers press into her quivering slit, violating her, manipulating her, unleashing a rage of unearthly pleasure from the depths of her soul like a flooding river, submerging her, drowning her and reducing all thought and feeling to the throbbing, spasming pulsations of her cunt.

Acrid, guttural sounds leap from her mouth as Mister Jonathan's ministrations draw her to the sputtering, deathly realization that, oh, sweet Jesus, sweet fucking Christ, I-I am, c-cum, cum, c-cumming. C-c-um.

Glittery, confetti-like shapes dance in front of her eyes as her body seizes and convulses. A thin line of spittle oozes from the corner of her mouth and she sucks desperately for air. Driven to her knees, she hears Mister Jonathan's admonishment crackling distantly behind her like a broken transistor radio.

"Who gave you permission to crumple down there?"

Degraded and helpless, Slut Norah is acutely aware that the very next thing she will want to do when she is able to rise is to ask for forgiveness. To ask Mister Jonathan to absolve her of all the years of distance and removal she has placed between herself and her job. Her family. Her life. Her bed.

But before she can string that all together in some cogent supplication, he pulls her head up by the hair, reading her far better than she has ever known how to read herself.

"Maybe you can begin now to understand what is going on between us. This is not a discussion, a civilized give and take, a negotiation. At least, not the kind you are used to. You are merely here to be made use of here, or to be punished, when I and I, alone, see fit. You are not a sex slave or even a lowly fucktoy yet. You are just beginning to fall in love with the idea of being one.

"But ...," she begins.

"No," Mister Jonathan's voice slashes like a short and cleansing wound. "Don't say anything. Just feel me lick the back of your neck. Feel me make your pussy weep for what you have not yet earned."

Mister Jonathan traces his tongue downward, still holding Slut Norah's head up by her hair while gripping her wrists together behind her back. Sobbing openly now, she feels the wet extraction of his tongue taking everything she has ever wanted to hold onto. Everything she has somehow needed up until this very moment until, at last, empty and lost and wondrously unafraid, she relinquishes herself fully to her new master in the first of many extraordinary falls earthward.


Burning shamelessly to nothing like a remnant of a wholly other existence, and sweating softly to absolution in its heat.





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