That Friday evening, she and Josh greeted me at the front door when I rang the bell. Ms. Hart was dressed down this time in black jeans and a simple white long-sleeved T-shirt. The first thing I noticed was the way the woman's tits seemed to eat up nearly all of the stretchiness of her top. The second thing was how marvelously rounded her ass looked as she went up the stairs to change.

Josh was all over me from that moment on and I followed him up to his room to play. An old-fashioned electric race track had been set up on Josh's bedroom floor, and we raced little sports cars against each other several times before Ms. Hart popped in to say good-by to her son. She had changed into a short dress that was going to turn heads so fast that there would be scores of sore necks in the city the next morning. I'm sure I stared, but then I think she saw me looking for Mr. Hart behind her, because she explained that he was out of town for a medical conference.

"It's girls' night out," she admitted. "I hope that doesn't upset you."

"Why would it?" I asked, feeling my dick grow from the sight of her.

“You’re sweet,” she replied.

She left then, and things went great with Josh again. After he'd gone to sleep, I found myself snooping around the house in search of — what? — more photos of Ms. Hart, of course. I wasn't entirely comfortable with being such a sneak — there, I guess I used to have a conscience. Anyway, I went from room to room, eventually coming across a grouping of photo albums on a bookshelf in the den. I picked out one of the thick albums at random and got my reward on the very first page.

There she was in a swimsuit on a beach that looked like the Bahamas or Virgin Islands. I considered heading to the bathroom right then and there to jerk off, but there were too many images that captivated me, so I took the album to the kitchen table and slowly flipped through all of photos from this tropical vacation. There she was from the back, shielding her eyes with one raised hand, her svelte, stacked form clearly outlined by the setting sun's rays filtering through a loose cotton blouse. And here she sat barefoot on a stool in a thatch-roofed open-air bar, dressed in a mint green tank top and cut-offs. Her tits overwhelmed the top like nobody's business and her legs were so sleekly muscled that I could imagine the busboys and tourists outside of the camera's viewing range leering at her with their tongues hanging into the sand. I thumbed through that entire book, shaking my head in disbelief so many times, and couldn't help feeling envious when it finally dawned on me that I was looking at honeymoon pictures. Lucky fucking rich balding bastard.

I got part way through another photo album, this one with pictures of Ms. Hart and her family when she was a young girl. Natasha was gorgeous even as a kid, and one look at her mother explained why. Her father was tall and distinguished, although he never seemed to smile. Many of the pictures had faded color and I couldn't figure out the locations, but it sure wasn't anywhere in this country. Europe, or Russia, maybe? The type of architecture kept changing, and most of the time it looked really old. Then, all of a sudden, the family was in Washington D.C., the Washington Monument clear as day in the background. I kept searching for clues, and then abandoned that album to look for photos that might chronicle Ms. Hart's transformation from a gorgeous little kid into the uber-breasted sexpot that she was today.

The next photo album had bizarre snapshots of circus performers of all things, but before I could get past the first page I became panicked by the sounds of a car pulling into the driveway. There really wasn't anything wrong with looking through another family's snapshots while baby-sitting, but I felt guilty, no doubt because these particular pictures had kept my dick completely hard for quite some time. I replaced the photo album and ran to the den, switching on the TV and striking a bored posture among some throw pillows on the sofa that helped to mask my erection.

No one came in, and after several moments I came to the conclusion that another car had used the driveway to turn around. It was after the time that Ms. Hart was expected back, so I decided to stay right where I was. I bounced between Leno and Letterman on the tube for a while before keeping the remote on an old black and white movie with flying saucers invading the earth.

I didn't know that I'd fallen asleep until feeling the touch of Ms. Hart's hand on my shoulder. I started awake and she smiled down at me pleasantly.

"I thought about not waking you, you looked so peaceful," she said.

I sat up and rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, more disoriented by the radiance of that smile than the lingering sleep. I looked at her sheepishly and it was then that I knew she'd been home for some time, because she was wrapped in a long white terry cloth robe and her hair was wet.

She must have noticed me looking at her attire uncomprehendingly, because she said, "It felt so good to wash the smell of cigarettes out of my hair."

"Where did you girls go?" I asked, still half absorbed by cobwebs.

"Oh, just out for drinks and some conversation," she answered. "We didn't stir up too much trouble, but I think we broke some hearts."

A few quick peeks at her curves animating the simple robe were all it took to understand that comment. "Who were you with?" I asked, awake enough to know that it was one of my business, but curious enough to ask anyway. I pictured a smoky bar filled with shapely yoga instructors, all drinking and laughing and looking so damned lovely.

"Just some girls I know," she answered, not giving too much away.

She looked like she was going to add something else, but then stopped herself and stared at me as though seeing me in a whole new way. "You're eighteen, right?"

"I will be in a few weeks," I answered.

"I don't suppose that you drink much wine?"

"No, but I've had it before, if that's what you're asking."

"What I'm asking is whether you'd like to join me for a small glass before you leave. I think it would help me get to sleep."

I quickly nodded my consent, wondering whether it was my company or the wine that would help to relax her. She returned with a bottle of Bordeaux, two slender glasses and an opener. I did my best not to look like an unpracticed idiot when she handed me the bottle and the opener. As she was about to take her first sip, she stopped her glass in mid-air and proposed a toast.

"To..." I could see several thoughts pass behind her emerald pupils before she finished. "To girls!"

"I'll drink to that!" I said, probably too enthusiastically.

Ms. Hart settled into a brown leather comforter across from me, drawing her knees up to her side. The robe parted just enough for me to be able to see her feet, ankles and most of her right calf. Just those few parts of her anatomy made my eyeballs scream, and I had to make a very serious effort not to look down too often.

"So how are you with the girls, Brian? Do you have a girlfriend?"

The question startled me, but I answered directly. "Not really," I said. "Although I do have a date tomorrow night."

"Oh? Someone new?"

"Yeah, it's a first date."

"Is she pretty?"

Again I was unprepared for her question, and I probably began to look nervous. "The girl I'll see tomorrow night?"

An affirmative tilt of the head. Ms. Hart had this way of tilting her head to one side or another, and so much seemed to be communicated with this simple adjustment. Her neck, I noticed, looked so smooth and strong.

I answered that, yes, Cindy was pretty enough, although it felt weird to say it when I was looking into the eyes of the most gorgeous creature I'd ever seen.

"How many girlfriends have you had?"

I hesitated before answering. What did she mean by the word "had"? Did she mean how many girls had I had sex with, which at that time would have been two, or was she asking about even my first "puppy- love" girlfriends back in junior high?

"I sometimes wish I'd dated more when I was younger," Ms. Hart went on, not waiting for my answer. She studied the contents of her wine glass as though seeing some mystery in its ruby red tones. "If you turn eighteen soon then I'm only seven years older than you are, you know."

I nodded my head. Because some of the photos of her as a young child had been dated, I already knew her age and even the date of her birthday.

"You might find this hard to believe, but I never had a boyfriend of any kind until I was nearly your age."

"What? Why not?" I asked, incredulous.

"Oh, other things took up my time."

"What kind of things?"

“Gymnastics, mainly. I was quite the gifted gymnast when I was young."

"Really?" That might help to explain her body, I thought.

"I practiced for a minimum of five hours every day until I was fifteen. My training didn’t leave much time for boys."

So many thoughts were racing through my mind that I ended up not saying anything. I wanted to ask where she was born and how she ended up here. I also wanted to know whether she had stopped being a gymnast because her tits had grown so big.

"I feel that I've confused you in some way," Ms. Hart said after a little while.

"I was just... Where did you grow up?"

"I was born in Hungary," she answered, "although I 'grew up' in several countries, including the U.S. My father worked for what would be the equivalent of the State Department."

"Oh." It made sense. The extra bit of color in her voice, the varied cobblestone streets in those photos of her as a child. She was the child of a diplomat, moving from country to country as her father's work required. I could have asked a thousand questions, but what I said was, "Do you still do gymnastics?"

She laughed, a good laugh that was almost musical. "No, Brian. I work out every day and I'm extremely active, but I don't perform any more, at least not in public."

"Why not?"

"You did notice that I have a four year old child, didn't you?"

"Yes, but... You just don't have time, then?"

She shifted in her chair, looking into her wine glass again. As she readjusted her position, the bottom of her robe opened for just a moment, and I saw enough of her right thigh to be reminded of how toned and sculpted her legs were.

"You saw right through my little evasion, didn't you?" she asked. "I really shouldn't lay the end of that life at the feet of Josh. The fact is that I stopped my gymnastics career when I ran away from home."

"What? You ran away from home? Why?"

"It's... kind of complicated. I guess I wanted more excitement in my life than I had back then. My father could be so controlling… Anyway, I loved gymnastics, but it wasn’t enough for me.”

"It bored you?"

"In a way. I loved performing, and everyone treated me like such an up-and-coming little star. Maybe it was all too easy somehow. I was so good at it... too good, I suppose. Anyway, I left home and did some pretty crazy stuff for a while."

“What kind of crazy stuff?"

"I joined the circus."

"What? The circus? You're kidding!"

"It's the God's honest truth."

"You mean elephants and…"

"No, no, forget the elephants. This was a European circus, not Barnum and Bailey. Imagine something much more physical, more athletic. Perhaps you've seen the Circe de Soleil perform?"

"No."

"Well, what we did was more along those lines, only with even more of a sense of theater. It was very gaudy and explosive, but less about spectacle than intensely choreographed acrobatics. I was one of the acrobats."

"You mean, like, a trapeze artist?"

"There wasn't a trapeze act, although I was often high in the air. I did all kinds of floor stunts with the other acrobats, and specialized in a technique using scarves to perform my aerial act. It was all quite unique. Still, there were a few things you're probably familiar with. I had some knives thrown at me from time to time, and I was a magician’s assistant, getting sawed in half every night and hypnotized into performing some seemingly impossible tricks."

“What do you mean? What kind of tricks?”

“They’d be too hard to describe. Let’s just say that I have coordination like you wouldn’t believe. I was pretty fearless.”

I couldn't have been more intrigued. At my prompting, she told me how she ran away from home while her father was stationed in Paris, and joined a traveling troupe of performers that toured all of Europe. Her parents found her, of course, and her father was furious that his "little Olympic star" had been attracted to a life that was considered lower class, or "Gypsy-like", as he put it. He also worried about the dangerous nature of the stunts, but it was primarily this issue of class that upset him most.

I had so many questions that I wanted to ask: Was it scary running away from home? How did your parents find you? Did you still go to school? What was life like in the circus? Did you use a net for the most dangerous stunts? What was it like being hypnotized? I don't know how I did it, but I withheld all of these questions and allowed her to tell me as much as she wanted in the manner that came naturally to her. Her parents made her leave the circus, but she became more rebellious, and returned to it later. She spoke with a certain fondness of those memories, but I got the feeling that she had mixed feelings about those years.

She then took her recollections in a direction that interested me very much, describing the way that all of the circus performers were totally fixated on their bodies.

"The performance of our bodies was a matter of life and death, as dramatic as that sounds. Our livelihoods depended on looking sexy and our necks depended on never making a mistake. I lived those stunts and even dreamed about them almost every night, and it felt special, the camaraderie between the performers. We had to trust each other implicitly, and…” She paused and regarded me. “You kind of remind me of one of them, Brian.”

“One of the other acrobats?”

She nodded, without really explaining, and then went on. “Anyway, I was having a great time and didn't question any of it for a long while. But there were certain… troubles, that developed among some of the other performers. I was probably looking for a way out when I met the man who would become my husband. I was... I was very ready to leave that life by then."

"Why?"

A cloud passed over her features, followed by a long silence. "I teach yoga now," she said, abruptly changing the subject. "And I have private clients that I train in strength and agility. My focus is totally different than when I was performing, but I'm really, really good at what I do. My yoga students are everything from ten year old girls to men and women in their seventies and eighties, and I'm having a great time with it."

I kept thinking about that photo album, the one with the circus performers. There were probably snapshots of Natasha performing her stunts in some kind of clingy outfit, all at the time that her tits would have been growing. And that cock-hardening photo on Dr. Hart’s desk, the one where she looked like a sequined super-hero… Probably a shot of what Natasha looked like towards the end of her circus career. I imagined seeing her twirl high in the air, with her incredible body striking all sorts of sinuous poses, her big boobs almost bursting through the material of her circus outfit.

My dick couldn’t have been harder when I left her house.