I baby-sat for the Harts twice in the month of May. On the first occasion, it was a Wednesday night and Mr. and Ms. Hart went to a concert of some kind. They didn't stay out too late, but it was enough time for me to find the photo album I'd been looking for, the one where Ms. Hart's breasts developed as a circus performer. I won't say too much about what I saw, other than to mention that even as a teen-ager Natasha had come to possess the body of a goddess of athletic delight. Then, about halfway through this particular book, the hormones or the genetics kicked in, and here came the tits.

Some of the photos were labeled and dated, so it was possible to construct a timeline of sorts, and it looked like Natasha’s tits grew at an almost alarming rate of speed. In some cases you could clearly see the difference in their size between one page and the next, as though she was gaining an entire cup size in a matter of weeks or even days. I think I got the hardest erection of my life looking at those photographs, and was comforted in knowing that I could relieve my excitement inside of Cindy's mouth or pussy this time rather than with my right hand.

When the Harts returned that night, a tension hung between them that was impossible to ignore. Mr. Hart had an icy demeanor, and Natasha’s exotic features were flushed with emotion. Mr. Hart more or less stormed away to his study and I figured that I should high-tail it out the door to let them settle whatever argument they were having, but Natasha lightly caught my arm and asked me to please stay for a few minutes.

"Are you okay?" I asked her.

She smiled, sadly, and whispered, "No, I'm not okay."

"Is there anything…"

"Just stay and have a glass of wine with me."

It was far from relaxing, knowing that her husband was brooding or whatever in another room. My emotions were conflicted, too, because Ms. Hart looked so sad and so fucking gorgeous all at the same time. She was wearing a deep blue dress made out of some kind of material that shimmered in the light, and it hugged her curves like a coat of glittering paint. The hem was pretty short, too, and she wore heeled shoes that emphasized her ankles and calves in devastating fashion. Settling into her chair across from me, Ms. Hart let her heels slip off her feet and she absently extended a leg out.

"How did your date go a few weeks ago?" she asked, seeming to study the miraculous perfection of that straightened leg, just as I was.

"Uh, it went really well."

One corner of her mouth lifted a little and she nodded her head. It worried me that I was getting so aroused by a woman giving out vibes of deep sadness. Josh's mother looked like her heart was breaking; even so, I could feel my cock twitch every time she moved even slightly. Her dress had long sleeves that clung tightly to her arms, and when she sipped from her wine glass I could see her biceps shift and grow underneath the thin material. I’d never really noticed what a turn-on it could be to see a well-developed set of arms like that on a woman. I felt like kicking myself for leering and being all excited at such an inappropriate time, but there it was and I didn't know what I could do about it. Like a preview of the split to come, part of me (my eyes and hardening cock) wanted to stay there to learn what other revelations would arise from staring at this woman in her tight dress, but another part was trying to figure out the most gracious way to leave as quickly as possible.

I think Ms. Hart could tell I was nervous about remaining there, because she looked up at me with great warmth and gratitude and said, "I shouldn't have put you in this position, Brian. In a way, I wish you could stay here all night and talk with me — it comforts me to have you here — but you'd probably better go."

She walked me to the door and as I turned to leave she asked, "You turned eighteen the other week, didn't you?"

I nodded "yes", and she looked at me kind of strangely.

"I should have gotten you a present," she said.

I told her it was okay.

"What does it feel like to be a man now?" she asked.

I remember thinking that the way she had put it was an odd way of looking at things. Before I could answer, she leaned in and gave me a kind of half-hug. I couldn't tell what the hug was all about — was it a good-bye hug, or a happy birthday hug, or a "Thanks for staying with me in my distress" hug? All I know is that my hands couldn't rest on her back as they might with a "normal" woman — there was too much tit-flesh in front and my intimate contact with this flesh made the walk to the driveway extremely awkward.

What did it feel like to be a man now? It felt like my dick was going to vibrate right off of my body. I drove home and masturbated in my bedroom that night, recalling the contours of Ms. Hart's shape as it had been defined by her blue dress, and replayed, over and over, the feeling of her big breasts pressing into me.

It might have been the touch of her body that sent me over the edge. Whatever it was, I felt almost haunted by her day or night. I caught a glimpse of her one afternoon when running an errand in my car, just five seconds of Natasha racing out of some store. The grace of those few simple steps tortured me, and I began to wonder whether I had any stalker tendencies that I’d never acknowledged. Probably, because I began to imagine all sorts of things that we could do together, my fantasies always ending with us fucking uncontrollably.

At the same time, we could have no life together. We weren’t a million miles apart in age, but I was still a kid living at home and she was a worldly woman, and I wasn’t so far gone that I couldn’t see that. Besides, she was married and had a young child — what, exactly, did I think I would do even if she did have feelings for me?

She called me about a week later, and without the events that transpired that next night of baby-sitting, this would be nothing more than a story about a horny teen-ager lusting after the unattainable older bombshell. Which means there would have been no story at all.

It’s so easy to see the pivotal events in a life in retrospect like this. This was the crucial night of nights, and it’s weird, because I could have avoided the whole thing. Natasha needed me on a night I'd planned to see Cindy, and I'm surprised even now that I agreed to be there. I called Cindy and played up the desperation of Natasha’s baby- sitting situation, and explained how I felt that I should try to “do the right thing” by helping out.

Cindy bought the lie just fine, but what the hell was I doing? Why would I choose to lust hopelessly over Natasha Hart when I could have picked up Cindy and ended the night with a satisfying fuck or an exhilarating blowjob? I remembered how distressed Ms. Hart had been the last time I'd seen her, and I tried to convince myself that I was being compassionate by going to her house to baby-sit. I knew it wasn't true, though. For some reason it was more exciting to go drool over an unattainable sex object than to go out with a sweet, pretty girl who was perfectly willing to fuck me. It didn't make any sense and I knew it, but the pull was irresistible.

Maybe that’s what the hands of fate feel like when they’re pulling you over a cliff. Or maybe the changes had already begun. I suspect the latter, but even now I can’t be sure.

When my mother heard that I was going over to sit, she said, "You might need to find some other clients if you're thinking of continuing to earn extra money this way. I don't know for sure, but the Harts might not be together too much longer."

I asked her what she knew, and she tightened up. "It really doesn't do any good to gossip about other people's troubles." Five minutes later, though, she was doing just that, letting it slip that Mr. Hart might be cheating on his wife. The thought that any man could want another woman when he was married to a nuclear fuck-bomb like Natasha made me laugh, and my mom caught my meaning.

"I agree. When the man's wife looks like that and he still wants a lover on the side...”

"He must be crazy," I said, finishing her sentence.

"Some people can't appreciate what they have in their life," my mom answered. “Dr. Hart has it all — a beautiful child, a beautiful home, and his wife has the looks of a movie star... Maybe he volunteered for brain surgery that went wrong. It's the only explanation."

When I showed up the following evening, Natasha was alone when she met me at the door. She was dressed down in blue jeans and a sweatshirt, and looked a little puffy around the eyes, like she'd been crying. She probably looked as crappy as was possible in her case, but even so my heart fluttered from the sight of her.

"Thank you for coming, Brian. It's another girls' night out, and I need this one pretty desperately."

She went upstairs to change and I found Josh out in the back yard, playing with Magic. I helped him work with his dog until I heard Ms. Hart calling for me to come in.

Oh man, can the right choice in clothes lead to transformation. You hear it said that every woman needs a "little black dress" as an essential part of her wardrobe, and Natasha had sheathed her slim-and- stacked acrobatic self inside of one to devastating effect. Whether through the magic of make-up or the passing of time, her face had gone through a transformation as well. She looked radiant and ready to thrust herself out into life, not moody or weepy.

"Can you help zip me up?" she asked, turning away to give me access to the half-closed zipper at the back. "This dress is more complicated than it should be."

Complication, complications. My dilemma was whether to trust that my hand would pull the zipper up, rather than down to her ass. It made me almost delirious to stand so close to her, and to sneak a peek over her shoulder to the knockers powering out below her neck.

When Ms. Hart spun around on her heels with her arms out to the side and asked, "What do you think?" the answer was right there bulging in my jeans. Luckily she kept her eyes up, and I told her, honestly, that she was the most beautiful creature that had ever been to the place she was going, no matter where that was. She cocked her head and bit her lower lip in a show of modesty, but I could tell that she was pleased with what I'd said.

I thought then about what my mom had told me, that Dr. Hart had a lover. How could anybody be so stupid? Natasha left at six and I got a sense of just how tenuous this particular marriage was when Josh asked me, pretty much out of the blue, whether my parents yelled at each other. I explained to him as best I could that my mother and father had not lived together for six years.

"Did they yell at each other before he left?" Josh pushed on.

"Well, yes, I guess they did."

"I wish that my dad didn't make my mommy cry," he said.

I wasn't sure what to say in response.

“My dad can be a real meanie sometimes."

"I guess so," I replied. "But we'll both work hard not to be mean when we're all grown up, right?"

"Right!"

He was okay after that. A real trooper that kid. Me, I guess I really believed what I was saying, as horrifically ironic as that seems now.

I don't know why, but I didn't really have it in me to go lurking through the house that night. I watched TV and thought about how I'd felt when my mom and dad had split up, and how I'd adapted to the new reality fairly quickly, even though it seemed like the end of the world right when it happened. Kids are resilient, or maybe people in general are resilient no matter what the age, and I figured that Josh would be okay in the end.

I was feeling a bit blue when Natasha came home. She was, by contrast, surprisingly lively. She urged me to stay and went to check on Josh. A few minutes later, she returned without her shoes, holding one of her photo albums. I experienced a moment of panic, afraid that she somehow knew I'd been gawking at her body in her old pictures.

"I’d like to show you some photos of my old circus days,” she said.

"Cool," I replied, realizing from the album cover that I already knew most of the photos rather intimately.

She plopped down right next to me on the sofa with the album in her hand and started flipping through the pages, stopping here and there when she came to an image that especially moved her. She pointed out certain compatriots and reminisced about them, apparently oblivious about the effect it would have on me to see the pictures of her super- sexy body in her skimpy circus attire.

I tried to pay attention, but the fact was that I could barely get my eyeballs to look at the photographs with the real woman sitting right there. Natasha brought her shoeless legs up onto the sofa and crossed them, which brought her bare right knee within about an inch of my left leg. With the heavy book resting in her lap, I was treated to the sight of her well-developed calves bulging as they pressed against the backs of her thighs. My eyes were drawn to her right knee for some reason, and I stared at it for the longest time, trying to figure out what it was about this knee that made it so much sexier than any woman's knee I'd ever seen. It was just a fucking knee, but its shapeliness almost made me weep in admiration.

Even worse, I discovered, were the wonders revealed by the scooping neckline of her dress, which accentuated her beautiful collarbones and gave view to the tantalizing line of cleavage between her tits. This particular marvel became an irresistible magnet for my eyes, because when Natasha leaned towards me slightly to make the pictures easier to see, I was presented with a view of the tops of her boobs that was going to remain with me for the rest of my life.

What would have happened if I hadn’t asked the question I asked? I’ll never know. But I noticed the change the instant she turned a page and stared at a close-up of an elegant man with a thin mustache. She was saying something about one of the other performers, and all of a sudden, in mid-sentence, her expression went a little vague and the posture of her body stiffened.

Could I possibly have known the significance of the moment? My nerves screamed an alarm, but it was because Natasha's knee suddenly came to rest against my left thigh. There was no detectable hint of flirtatiousness in this slight contact — from all indications, she was completely unaware that it had happened — but for me it was as though a thousand volts of electricity were shooting from her knee into my leg and directly up to my cock. If my brain should have been working at peak proficiency at that particular moment, I was fucked.

“W…who is that?” I asked, indicating the particular photo with my hand. There was something oddly familiar in the face, although I was quite sure that I’d never seen the man before.

“The magician who hypnotized me almost every night.”

I couldn’t take her words seriously, because they meant nothing to me. Magic and hypnotism were things that happened in movies or fantasy novels, not real life. And so, out of dubiousness more than anything, I asked her what it was like to be hypnotized, and how it was accomplished.

I only half-listened as she began to reply. The thing was, I could see that the subject was getting Natasha all agitated in a way that I was thoroughly enjoying. Through a series of stealthy glances, I scrutinized the creamy texture at the tops of her breasts, which were rising and falling as her breathing deepened and quickened. From all that I could see, the woman’s knockers looked flawless, and I was startled when I noticed the clear imprints of her nipples pushing at the fabric of her dress. God fucking damn! She was getting hot! I felt a thumping in my ears, like my blood was pumping too fast, filling my head with pressure.

With Natasha’s knee pressing into me and those two magnificent mounds moving up and down like huge surfable tit-waves, I felt near to melting down from some kind of sensory overload. We've all heard of pheromones and other invisible sexual signals, and at that moment it was like every pore on the woman’s body was venting "Fuck me!" instructions. Natasha’s body had always looked like it could completely fill a room with hot sex signals, and I could swear that it was beginning to happen.

“I loved being hypnotized,” she whispered. “You can’t imagine how exciting it was.”

“How did this… Anton,” I said, reading his name from below the photo, “hypnotize you?”

Her eyes went a little glassy and then she said, “I’ll show you.”

Show me what? I was confused as she got up and slinked over to an old mahogany cabinet beside the fireplace. She opened a drawer and took out an old fashioned key, and used it to open another, smaller drawer, pulling out a little painted box. I really didn’t know what was going on, because I’d been lost in the heavy-breathing tit-show a few moments before. But I started to guess when she lifted the hinged lid of the box, gently pulling out some sort of ruby-colored object, holding it out for view in the palm of her hand.

I didn’t know what the fuck the thing was, but it was unreal the way it caught the light. It flashed repeatedly and the hairs on my arms went all straight, as though the room had become infused with some sort of invisible current. Natasha came back towards the sofa and stood there holding the strange thing out to me, her expression unreadable.

“This is what he used to hypnotize you?”

“Yesss,” she replied, her voice sounding hollow.

It was an amazing object. Complex. Beautiful. Magnetic. Unfathomable. My fingers gently pinched its sides and I held it up to my eyes to study it. I will call the object a “crystal” for the purposes of this narrative, as that seems to be a popular term in these sorts of stories. At the time, though, no identifying name came to mind, because I just couldn’t tell what the fuck the thing was. It wasn’t a crystal or gem, although it did appear to have some mineral properties. Its surface was unreadable in a way I’d never seen, as though it had too many dimensions, or used three dimensions in a way that it shouldn’t be allowed to. It was generally a deep blood red in color, but the hue kept shifting, even though I could never quite catch the moment of change. I kept staring at the thing, but the more I looked, the less I felt I could even see it. My eyes became unfocused and I began to get kind of shaky, and charged with energy, my thoughts skipping around oddly.

When I drew the crystal away from my face, Natasha was standing there, waiting. And open, strangely open. She wasn’t quite there, as though... Well holy shit. Somehow I knew, right from the beginning. I didn’t know how I knew, but I knew.

“Natasha?”

“Yesss.”

My heart pounded in my chest and I had to make myself breathe. The familiar kinds of thoughts in my head were saying, “This can’t be happening”, and “She’s just kidding around, maybe playing a trick on you.” The smart thing would have been to start small, cautiously. But there were other kinds of thoughts, too. Knowing thoughts. Understanding thoughts. There were no reasons to proceed with caution, because I knew.

“Show me your breasts, Natasha.” I had no fear that she would slap me in the face. She did hesitate, though, and so I poured it on. “You want me to see your breasts, don’t you?

“I… I…”

“You’ve dreamed of showing them to me. You know how much they turn me on and you want me to see them.”

“I… want you to see my breasts…”

“You’ll show them to me because you are attracted to me. You find me sexy, and you even want me to touch your breasts.”

“I… want…”

“You want me to see and touch your breasts.”

“I want you… to see and touch my breasts…” she whispered, her lips so full.

I thought I might have to keep going, but her hands trembled for a moment, then reached behind her back to work the zipper there. I was ecstatic, elated, energized, enlarged, engorged… you name it. I wondered if she’d have to remove her entire dress to comply with the command, but after zipping the back about halfway down, she worked the top from her shoulders. I got a view of her tits eating up her big black bra for about three seconds, and then the bra came off, too, dangling absently from one outstretched finger.

I don’t know what made my dick harder — the power, the tits, or the look on Natasha’s face. They were incredible breasts, so full and round and forceful in the way they leaped out from her body. And the thing was, even through the relative blankness you could see that she knew how great her tits were, and how they turned me on. It was as though showing them to me completed her somehow. As though doing my bidding made her feel sexy and whole.

And excited. Her nipples were fucking magnificent, and they might have been even harder than my dick right then. Jesus fucking Christ — with this red crystal in my hands, I could make this woman do things. I could make her do things! I had so many commands ready all at once, almost as though they had been lined up for years. Maybe it should have frightened me, the way I felt so prepared for this impossible moment. Maybe I should have asked myself all sorts of questions that I never thought to ask. Instead, I told her to take two steps forward, and she complied.

Remaining seated on her couch, I stretched one hand up and brushed her left nipple, then the right, both so fucking full and so fucking hard. She hissed from my touch, a good hiss. I caught a whiff of her scent and I couldn’t resist.

“You’ve been dying for me to touch your vagina, Natasha. You’re very excited and you want me to touch your vagina. In fact, you need it. It will feel so exciting to you. Unimaginably exciting.”

“I… I…”

“You desperately need me to touch your vagina.”

“I… need you… to touch my vagina.”

I kept one hand on her tits while the other reached out to stroke her thighs, feeling the fine texture of her flesh and the tautness of the muscle underneath. And then I moved my hand up, my fingertips finding her panties damp. Very damp. I pressed with the tip of my middle finger, clearly feeling the wet terrain of her pussy through the thin barrier of cloth. A deep sigh escaped Natasha’s lips, and when I looked up, her pupils were nowhere to be found, her pleasure having rolled her eyes up under fluttering lids.

I’d never seen anything so sexy in my life. She was sort of gone, but gone in a way that meant she was totally connected through her body to the pleasure. I almost came in my pants right then and there, and actually had to concentrate to keep it from happening. Not yet, dammit, not without her doing the deed.

I hurriedly unzipped my jeans and unbuckled my belt, and pulled out my throbbing dick. Natasha’s sight slowly returned and she looked down upon my pulsing pole with some mixture of emotions that I couldn’t quite decipher. But the real question for me right then was which part of her I wanted to fuck first.

And then we both heard Josh, crying and calling out for his mother. Crap! The kid was having a nightmare, and it was a nightmare scenario for me. Natasha made no move, although I knew she had heard him cry. It took a few seconds for me to know how to respond to the situation. Maybe I thought I was being a good guy by telling her to put her bra and dress back on, while I zipped myself back up. I must have had at least a shred of compassion to allow her to respond to her son. But I wasn’t a good guy when I kept her in that state for another minute or two, ignoring Josh’s cries so I could tell Natasha that she was aching to fuck me, that she was becoming increasingly attracted to me and would long to fuck me and even dream of fucking me. I ordered her to not remember that I had told her this. I told her not to remember showing me her tits, or allowing me to touch her, or seeing my cock. I kept at these commands until she repeated them back in her slow, detached voice, and then I had her put the crystal back in its place. Only then did I allow her to slowly come back to herself, so she could go soothe her son.

It took a few seconds, a period where it seemed that certain circuits were flickering back on. Her eyelids fluttered, and then she said to me, almost apologetically, “I need to check on Josh, Brian. Maybe you’d better let yourself out.”

I made a move to get my coat, but then she was near me, very near me.

"Brian?" she whispered.

I gulped before answering, "Yes?"

"Things have been pretty awful here lately. With my husband. I guess you know that."

"Yes. I... I'm sorry."

"Don't be. We'll get through it, me and Josh. Only..." She took my hand in hers and squeezed it. "I don't think I'll be going out very much anytime soon. It might be a little while before you hear from me again."

I nodded my head. Her hand held onto mine, one of her fingers moving against my palm. It felt like her finger was just restless, rather than deliberately teasing; still, she might as well have been stroking my dick, the touch was so exciting.

I can almost hear your complaints as you read this — “Why didn’t you do such-and such? Why didn’t you make her (fill in the blank), you idiot?” Well, if you’re so smart and have all the bright ideas, go write your own fucking story. I suppose I could have done a hundred things differently. I suppose I should have done things differently, but I didn’t, and I’m just writing things down as they happened, mistakes and all.

I was buzzing with so much energy that it took me a little while to realize how much I’d blown it there at the end. How could I repeat that hypnotic performance if she didn’t call me again to baby-sit? Maybe I should have kept the crystal, and maybe I should have just fucked her while I had the chance. At the same time, I wanted to arouse Natasha’s body, not her suspicions, and this was way too big to fuck up right from the beginning. Plus — and this is difficult to describe — I somehow knew that my patience would be rewarded. Actually, I had this weird sense that my patience had already been rewarded.

I drove around the city with no known destination for who knows how long, in total shock, my dick feeling like it could launch a gob of cum to the moon. I was soooo horny, so horny that it almost felt like I’d die if I didn’t cum. I took the chance that Cindy might still be awake and called her, and then headed over to her house to pick her up.

"My parents will be furious if they realize I've sneaked out this late," she whispered, getting into my car at the corner of her street. "Why did you want to see me so bad? How did baby-sitting go?"

"Fine. But it was a mistake. I should have been with you,” I lied. “I've been driving around thinking about you for an hour, Cindy. I… I should have been with you tonight." And then, shit that I was, I placed her hand on my raging erection, and smiled, wanly.

"Oh!" she said, grinning. "You really missed me!"

Maybe that was the first time I felt like a total dick. In every meaning of the word I felt like a dick, but Cindy was game, thank God.

"Just drive around the neighborhood slowly," she advised, leaning in low with her head, unzipping my pants. In the few weeks that we'd been seeing each other, there had been a noticeable improvement in Cindy's oral skills. She couldn't come close to fitting my entire shaft into her mouth, but the things she was learning to do with her tongue were inspired. She worked on the head of my penis for just a short while, but I think she could tell that little stimulation was going to be needed to make me explode this night. In no time her head was bobbing and twisting in my lap, and I had to pull over because the flood rising from my balls felt so strong. I started to grunt or moan more loudly than usual and this seemed to inspire Cindy to break her current speed record for rapid-fire sucking. I came so hard that she had to disengage her mouth and ended up getting a copious amount of my spunk in her hair.

She coughed for almost a minute, and I wondered just how much of me she had downed before giving up. "Jesus Christ, Brian!" she laughed when she could talk. "Are you on a sperm-producing diet or something? That was your usual load, squared!”

Cindy was so innocent then, and so willing. But of course I couldn't tell her why I was so excited. I couldn’t tell her that I had just discovered the secret of getting sex from Natasha Hart. I couldn’t tell her that some sort of magic actually existed in this world, changing my view of reality forever. Changing me forever.

I dropped Cindy off and headed home. It was then, alone in the car again, that I remembered the touch of my middle finger against Natasha’s wet opening. I drew my hand up and found her scent there on my fingertip. I breathed in deeply, savoring it. It smelled like a world of excitement, all ready to open for me. It smelled like a thousand excursions into unknown pleasures. Hell, it even smelled familiar, like it already belonged to me.