I pulled into the Hart's driveway just as the sun was setting, promptly at seven p.m. They lived in one of the more moneyed sections of town, but their house was not one of the oversized McMansions that were being built all over the place. The Harts had left most of the old trees on their two acres of land, and their home, a pine colored assemblage of odd angles and curves, was neatly tucked into the wooded landscape in a respectful, cooperative manner. Its subdued presence was a very deliberate choice, and one that had probably cost twice the money to accomplish.

Lester Hart — he introduced himself as Dr. Hart, as though his first name had been eradicated when he received his medical degree — met me at the door before I even rang the bell. He was a tall man, at least three inches taller than me, and I'm not short. Little round glasses and thin, receding hair provided the necessary "doctorly" touch.

"We appreciate this so much, Brian," he said, shaking my hand too hard. "We're attending an awards ceremony at the hospital, very political and all that. It would have looked terrible if I showed up all by myself. Natasha is upstairs still getting ready. Why don't you come on into the den and meet the Little Terror?"

The "Little Terror" was anything but. I was led into a cozy room with a fireplace, couch and large screen TV. Josh Street sat there cross- legged on the carpeted floor, looking up at me with the eyes of a shy interviewer. He was a surprisingly beautiful child, with bright hazel pupils, luxurious dark hair and a heart-melting smile. He was coy with me for about two minutes, hanging out near his dad's long legs and peering up at me with obvious curiosity.

"You're really hairy!" he exclaimed.

Really, I am not very hairy at all, at least on my body. I kept my hair rather long back then, and I guess it was quite a contrast to his dad’s receding hairline. Mr. Hart left us to get acquainted and I joined Josh on the floor, bringing my hairy head close for examination. I think I started making some jokes with him, stuff about me being part human, part hairy gorilla. Josh said I didn't look like a gorilla and showed me pictures of chimps and gorillas and orangutans from one of his picture books. Talk of animals led him to tell me that he had a dog whose name was Magic, and that Magic was a black lab and very good. I briefly described my old dog, Jet, who had died when I was twelve, and from that point the kid was pretty loose with me.

I was still sitting on the floor with Josh when I heard the sound of Ms. Hart descending the stairs in heels. From where I was sitting, her legs appeared on the staircase a second or two before the rest of her, and I think I blew out a gust of air in shock or something, because Josh looked up at me and giggled.

I just wasn’t ready for something like Natasha Hart. I knew from that very first glimpse that I was in the presence of something absolutely extraordinary, but as the rest of her came into view, my attitude became more confused. Those legs set a standard that the rest of her body should not have been able to match. Instead, every downward step revealed some new miracle, including breasts so full that I whispered “fuuuuuuck!” even with the kid there.

She walked forward to greet me and I finally took in the whole of her. It was immediately clear which side of the family Josh had gotten his looks from. I stood and we shook hands, and God knows what kind of expression I had on my face at that moment, because the woman looked like she ate bowls of hot sex for breakfast, her body was so fuckable. It wasn't like she was trying hard to emphasize the wonders of her body — she was dressed fairly conservatively in a black skirt that ended just above the knee, and a frilly kind of white cotton blouse — but everything about her appearance seemed to scream sexual vitality at me, almost making me wince.

I remember my brain scanning through memories, trying to find some reference point that related to what I was witnessing. There were some real lookers in my high school class that I’d lusted for, the cheerleaders and a handful of other really attractive girls, but I guess I'd never seen a woman like Ms. Hart in anything but magazines or movies.

Getting additional views of her from more angles as she interacted with Josh, I began to wonder whether I'd ever seen a woman like Natasha Hart anywhere. She was ravishingly gorgeous in an exotic Eastern European way, with this coiled-spring dynamism in her body that I couldn’t quite understand. She wasn’t particularly tall, maybe five-five or five-six in height, and much younger than I had expected. She looked about twenty-two, but that couldn't be right, could it? And what was it with the way she moved? There was this cat- like quickness to her gestures, a powerful grace even in simple movements that you couldn't fail to notice.

She thanked me for "saving her evening" as we went to the kitchen to go over the checklist of details that every parent recites before leaving home. Five minutes later I watched Dr. Hart give his boy a good-bye hug, followed by an enveloping embrace and kisses from Ms. Hart. It was touching to see the obvious warmth between mother and child, but it was weird, too, because I couldn't help thinking that this sweet little kid had no idea how sexy his mom was. Also, only a few years ago, he had probably been sucking on those fabulous tits.

Josh and I did a number of things before it was time to put him to bed. I met his dog, who slept outside, and we played with several of his favorite toys before running a bath. Afterward, we watched a taped episode of The Simpsons, which he loved. I had a good time with him and probably did a fine job for a rusty baby-sitter, but part of me was still reeling from what I had witnessed before. I read Josh a chapter from a Harry Potter book before turning out his lights, and saw from the glow of a wall clock that there were at least three hours left before the expected return of his parents.

I returned to the den and turned on the TV, but I had zero interest in watching anything. Normally I would have read or watched TV to pass the time, but this night I was unusually restless, and felt compelled to walked around the Hart's house, snooping. It didn’t take long to realize what I must be looking for.

I found a studio portrait of Ms. Hart in her wedding gown in one of the hallways, and I couldn't imagine that any man had ever had a more bodaciously beautiful bride. I'd been so preoccupied with staring at her body when I'd met her that I hadn't really taken in the particulars of her facial features, and now I saw how much I'd missed. Ms. Hart was not really smiling at the camera, but she was one of those women whose eyes can express a wealth of warmth and life all by themselves. Her lips were almost eerily sexy, and I kept scrutinizing them, trying to understand why they looked so special. I decided that it must have something to do with the shaping of her upper lip. It had the lushness that girls try to emulate with collagen injections, yet retained a delicate and precise quality in its shape that no plastic surgeon would ever be able to copy.

Her nose was adorable, smallish and lightly dimpled at its tip, this slight indentation adding a note of sprightliness to the stunning planes of her face. And cheekbones — good God the woman had cheekbones that looked like they could slice right through your heart. With her dark mane of hair expertly pulled up into some kind of elegant arrangement and capped with a white gossamer crown, the exquisite shape of her cheeks and jaw was enough to get my heart thumping in my chest. Then, to make matters worse, the fullness of her bosom was quite evident in the photo. Holy sheeeeiiiittttt…

I moved on, feeling like a total perv, and the feeling was even stronger when I found the large color photo propped up on the desk in Dr. Hart's study. My first impression was that it was a Halloween snapshot. Actually that’s not quite true — my first impression was of my dick, instantly turning to stone in my pants. Ms. Hart stared out from the photo with haunting directness, her astounding physique on display in some kind of tight and colorful bodysuit with sequins and shiny black boots. She looked like a super-heroine come to life, all tight and toned and just too fucking good to be true.

But it was true, and I could feel my jaw hanging low as I studied every detail of that picture. How did a body get to be like that? Her arms and shoulders, her abdomen and thighs… Fuuuuuck! She was way too lithe and graceful to be a body-builder, yet too sculpted to be something else. She was an athlete, that much was certain, but what did you do to end up with a body like that?

My cock swelled anew as I recalled the way she had filled out her skirt and blouse downstairs. Was it possible for a woman to look that good after giving birth to a child? I remember feeling unprepared, as though life had presented me with a riddle that I had no chance to answer correctly, only this particular riddle reverberated through my bloodstream, stirring up my young hormones in a way that I'd never felt before. I was almost frightened at how hard my dick was, feeling like a driver who suddenly realizes that the car they've been driving for years has another, previously unknown gear to explore.

I'm not proud to admit it, but I checked on Josh to make sure he was sleeping soundly, then crept into the master bedroom and opened a number of drawers until I found what I was looking for. I had to know, you know? The first bra, black, provided some answers as to the magnitude of Ms. Hart's upper dimensions: 34-DD. I stared at the combination of numbers and letters for God knows how long, before noticing the label of a neighboring bra, which contained an additional “D”. Holy fuck. A more thorough perusal of the drawer’s contents confirmed that she struggled to find a bra that fit just right, because her tits fell somewhere within the double and triple-D range. No girl that I had ever known had a rack like that.

Carefully replacing the garments in the drawer as I’d found them, I made my way to one of the bathrooms and jacked-off. I felt kind of guilty — I mean, what parent would feel comfortable knowing that their baby-sitter was masturbating in their house? Yes, I felt guilty, but not guilty enough to blunt my state of sexual excitement. It took all of twenty or thirty seconds for me to blow my load, images of Ms. Hart filling my mind.

I won't describe in detail how nervous I was when the Harts returned home late that night, or how I found opportunities to ogle Josh's mother and the way she filled out her outfit. She was an equal- opportunity ogling object, because it didn't really matter where I looked. Stare into her eyes, check out her tits, study her ass, move the eyes farther down to her knees and calves and ankles — every damned inch of the woman turned my dick to hot stone.

I drove home in something of a mental fog. Having an awareness of Natasha Hart made me feel like the whole of my life had just shifted, as though some fairy–tale reality was intruding into the known world. It’s almost laughable now to see how spot-on my instincts were, even though I was so fucking blind. I thought the magic feeling came entirely from her looks, because they were so extreme and it was the only part I could see. Now I know that the game was already in play, perhaps inescapably.

But that night, all I could know was how horny I was. I remember leafing through the couple of porn magazines under my bed when I got home, with memories of Natasha working on me like a pot of coffee all night. I jerked off again and didn't fall asleep until morning light was beginning to filter in through my bedroom windows. I think I had troubled dreams. If so, I should have paid attention to them.

My mom teased me when I got up at noon. "One night with a four year- old is more than you can handle now?"

I laughed with her and bit my tongue to keep from asking a million questions about Josh's super-sexy mother. Using just one "innocent" prompt while helping my mom unload the dishwasher, I learned that Ms. Hart taught yoga classes in the city and was now twenty-five years old.

"Not many women these days have a child when they’re so young," she commented, "but maybe she just really loves kids. I hear that she's very gifted as a yoga instructor. I wonder if she takes Josh to daycare every day."

The logistical details of the Harts' life were not a high priority for me. Instead, I got a mental picture of Natasha standing on top of a snow-capped mountain in the buff, legs stretched wide, her back arched with her huge tits pointing upward to greet the morning sun. Yoga. Was that her secret? Is that how she came to look like a sex goddess?

"She's extremely beautiful," my mother added, as though I wouldn't have noticed. "Dr. Hart found her in Paris, from what I've been told, and I think he was smitten on the spot. They say he'd been in the market for a trophy wife for years, and he knew when he'd found a real doozy."

What an understatement.