I finished the ceiling and started in on the walls, most of the time with a raging hard-on. I heard Natasha leave the house at some point and return shortly after. The sounds of grocery bags being unloaded told me that our dinner ingredients had arrived. When I was down to the final wall she came into the room and moved towards her dresser, only to stop short when she saw that it was covered in plastic.

"Hmmm. I guess I'll just get a change of clothes from the laundry room. I'm going to shower," she told me. "Dinner will be ready in about forty-five minutes. Can you be done by then?"

"Easily," I answered. "I might shower, too, if that's okay."

"Of course it's okay, Brian. I want you to make yourself at home tonight. Once you put that roller down, you're my dinner guest, not my house painter, understood?"

"Perfectly."

"I'll put out some towels for you in the bathroom."

"Thanks, Ms. Har... Thanks, Natasha."

I don't know about you, but I can't quite look at a woman the same way after I know that she has masturbated while thinking of me. I had regarded Natasha through a haze of lust from moment one, but now I knew she might be fingering herself in that shower, her big-titted gymnast/yoga body all shiny and dripping wet and getting scrubbed and cleaned just for me.

The sound of a hair drier told me that she was about finished in the bathroom, and I was pretty much done, too. I washed my equipment in the laundry room sink and passed Natasha in the hallway on my way to take a turn in the shower. What I saw made me turn my head away, but only to hide a wicked smile. If I hadn't read the diary, I might have thought that Natasha was braless under her white T-shirt simply because she couldn't get to her dresser. I might have thought that the translucent wet areas on her breasts were merely the unintended consequences of her freshly washed hair. But as I spied the pronounced swaying and jiggling of her huge breasts, I knew I was being given a special, deliberate exhibition with the express purpose of getting me hard.

It worked, too. I looked down at the water dripping off of my big hard dick in the shower, recalling the incredible fullness of Natasha’s breasts. How many times in her diary had she asked how I would react if I knew about her secret longings, or her sneaky ways of stimulating me? I could turn that question right around, and ask how Natasha would react if she knew that I had already seen the magnificence of her tits, fully exposed, and had touched her hard nipples and even felt her wetness through her panties.

She was at the stove when I entered the kitchen, sautéing summer vegetables in an iron skillet. Charcoal smoke wafted inside from a burning grill on the deck. I was barefoot like her, although I was in jeans as compared to her tight navy blue shorts. She saw me and opened the fridge, handing me a bottle of cold Pinot Grigio to open. As she busied herself at the stove, I stared unabashedly at the backs of her legs and the double-barreled roundness of her firm ass. She wasn't completely turned away from me, and I could see her right breast bounce hypnotically as she stirred the contents of the skillet.

Oh God, did I want to fuck this woman! My hand was shaking as I worked at the cork of the wine bottle. It was stubborn and I had to sandwich the bottom of the bottle between my legs to get some leverage. Natasha turned to look at me just as the cork came loose with a loud pop.

"That was rather suggestive," she commented.

So it's begun, I thought, and she fired the first shot. Leaving her stove duties, she brought over two elegant, thin-stemmed wine glasses and I poured us each a generous amount.

"What should we toast?" she asked.

If I had answered with the first thing that came to my mind, I'm certain I would have said "Your tits", because they were driving me fucking crazy with their unholstered movements. I brainstormed, hoping that some clever play on words would surface, something that sounded innocent while containing rich carnal overtones.

What I said, almost before I knew I was going to say it, was, "To realizing our deepest wishes."

She looked startled by my words, and then probed my eyes, looking for... well, I wasn't really sure what she was looking for. I tried not to give anything away and raised my glass. Natasha started to raise hers, but then didn't.

"I don't know why I'm hesitating," she said, looking a little flustered. "My deepest wish these days... I think it frightens me."

"Why?" I asked, knowing full well what might be going on inside of her. It was an odd and wonderful feeling, knowing what I knew from her own words, and her not knowing that I knew. It felt like I could twist and shape her thoughts and actions. It felt like a small taste of much greater possibilities.

"Because… I don’t know if I can trust myself," she answered with her eyes averted.

Interesting. She could just as easily have been afraid of what my wish would be. She really did look nervous, though, and I could almost feel the heat of her lust crashing against a cooling wall of indecision. She might be dying to have sex with me, but could she conquer her hesitations about seducing her teen-aged baby-sitter and house painter? She wanted the physical release, and maybe a part of her even liked the idea of being the seducer, but never in her diary had she said that she would actually go through with it.

I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to see her naked. I wanted to shove my cock inside of her until she popped. Instead, that strange sense of patience came over me, and I decided to ease off by going in a direction that I knew she would feel perfectly comfortable with.

"How about this one, then?" I offered. "To Josh. He's a great kid and he did bring us together, after all."

Her eyes immediately softened at her son's name. She clinked my glass without hesitation. "To Josh," she whispered, looking deeply into my eyes.

I couldn’t know then what I’d just said, and how complicated the puzzle was.

The meal was delicious, marinated chicken on skewers with a vegetable medley in a white sauce over pasta. Natasha was a fine cook, and she had good taste in wine, too. I’d never had Pinot Grigio before and wasn't sophisticated enough to know whether I was drinking decent wine or great wine, but it went down very easily and she seemed to be drinking it just as quickly.

We ate at the glass-topped table on her deck with the scent of citronella candles in the air, a summer breeze of increasing strength keeping things very comfortable. Every now and then the rumble of thunder from a distant storm blended with the sounds of insects. Natasha spoke about simple things, summer produce and Josh’s day care situation, that sort of thing. At some point after my first glass of wine, I asked her what it was like to teach yoga, and that led her into a few details about flexibility training, which I then directed towards her old circus life. She meandered amongst memories of that time, and I listened without pushing. My senses went on keen alert when she began to speak of one of the male acrobats, a boy named Carlo.

"Carlo had amazing arms,” she said. “He performed this special routine with rings, solo at first, but then we found a way to combine certain aspects of our acts. He was Italian and I had a terrible crush on him. I was an incorrigible flirt, finding all sorts of ways to make it… hard, for Carlo when we practiced together. My figure had begun to change by that time and I could see that he was fixated on my growing bust, but there were strict rules prohibiting the performers from getting together sexually, primarily because pregnancies could disrupt the schedule so badly. We did an excellent job of keeping our attraction a secret, and sneaked out late one night, checking into this shabby little hotel where you could rent rooms by the hour. That was my first time, there in a darkened little room in the middle of Prague."

"It sounds romantic," I commented, satisfied that our conversation had meandered into talk about sex.

"It was. I was afraid that I wouldn't know what to do, but as an acrobat you're taught to respect the intelligence of your body, and my body figured things out extremely quickly. Carlo was an attractive young man and I was… well, very enthusiastic. He had the most interesting eyes. They were intense — I could feel him staring at my body sometimes, and just sensing his lust could get me so excited... But then his eyes were kind, too. I could just look into those eyes and know he would rather die than ever intentionally hurt me. I think that was why I chose him to be my first."

I didn't say anything. My pulse was racing and the hairs on my arms stood on end, and only part of it was from the breeze that had picked up as if to mimic my excitement.

"We... fooled around, a good number of times," she went on. "It was always nerve-wracking in a way, because of the fear of being found out. It's strange, but I think that just made the sex all the more exciting. I've wondered ever since about that part of me, the part that must crave danger and excitement. I think I can… be… wild, sometimes."

She stopped her narrative abruptly, her breaths coming rather fast.

“It’s funny… You remind me a little of Carlo, Brian.”

Wow. Nice transition from perfect-sex past to possible perfect-sex present. “How is that?” I asked, discreetly opening my legs a bit wider, just in case she could see me there in the gathering darkness.

“Oh, your dark hair and your age, partly. And I think I get that same feeling from you, the sense that you’d never harm me.”

Was she that bad a judge of character? I didn’t know what to say for a minute, the clash of our realities was so great.

"Tell me about your first, Brian."

The thunder that had sounded so distant was perceptibly closer, and the sky behind the far corner of her house had become menacingly green.

"I think it’s going to rain," I warned.

"Don't dodge the subject,” she insisted. “Tell me, who was your first? Certainly not Cindy."

"No, not Cindy."

"Who, then? Come on, I told you about my first time. It's your turn."

"Her name was Andrea."

"How old were you?"

"Fifteen."

"Fifteen! Oh, how lucky for you! Tell me all about it!"

She poured us both a fresh glass of wine, making some little joke about needing to loosen my tongue. I stared right at the center of her tits as she poured, then gave her the general outline of how Andrea Simmons and I had done it out on her family's party boat one late spring evening. Natasha leaned forward as she listened, the tips of her breasts actually brushing against the tabletop.

"Was she a virgin?" she asked.

"We both were,” I answered. “We were kind of, um, hesitant for a bit, especially her.”

“Why?”

“Because of my…” I stopped. I could have said it, said the word “size”. I wasn’t being shy, or polite. I was hoping that she had silently and accurately ended the sentence herself. I hoped that her mind was swimming with the word.

"I… I get the feeling that you had more lovers between this Andrea and Cindy," Natasha probed. It was too dark now to see many visual clues, but her voice sounded tense.

"Just one girl,” I offered. “Her name was Julie. I was crazy about her, I guess. We were pretty tight for about six months, but then she moved away."

"And now Cindy has moved away as well."

"Yes."

"It's hard being alone when you know you have so much you could give to a partner,” she whispered.

"I guess so."

She took a rather large swallow of her wine before speaking again. "We've had the same number of lovers, Brian. I had a... a little thing with another man when I was seeing Lester, but before we were married. His name was… was… It’s funny, I can’t seem to come up with it. He was the company magician, the man who would hypnotize me every performance. Anyway, we took things… deeper, maybe five times. He was married and I was always terrified that his wife or Lester would somehow know — but again, the secrecy just made the passion more intense.

My skin was tingling everywhere. Why couldn’t she say the man’s name? Hadn’t she told me what it was back in the spring? “And so you and… the magician…” I led her on, wanting to know more.

“His wife watched us like a hawk, and we had to take unbelievable chances to make love. One night... I can't believe I'm telling you this... I used my scarves to lower myself from their hotel roof so I could sneak into his room from the balcony. We had sex in the shower while his wife slept in the bed, not ten paces from us."

"Damn!"

"It sounds horribly immoral and wicked, I know. Both of us were being awful, but things like that... He had this way of bringing out that side of me. I felt so out of control and naughty, but that just turned me on and made our sex wild and incredibly... physical."

I was barely breathing at this point. Natasha's voice had become little more than a whisper and her words were having a serious effect on me. Had the magician used the crystal much as I wanted to? Had he made her fuck him behind their other lovers’ backs, or was it as she said, that a risky and illicit fling tapped into her desire for risk?

I might have asked a question to probe more deeply, but I never had the chance because nature intervened. We had all of five seconds of light rain as a warning, and then the sky just opened up. I've gotten caught in summer storms before, but this one blasted us with a torrent of large drops so strong and steady that it almost felt like diving into a stream. I was confused for a few seconds about what to do — probably the effects of the wine — and followed Natasha’s lead in hurriedly gathering the plates and placemats and whatever else we could carry into the kitchen.

"You can say 'I told you so' now," she laughed once we were inside, shaking the water out of her hair like a wet dog.

She was drenched from head to foot, and so was I. I was going to reply but instead looked out the door past her, not believing my eyes. Hail, and lots of it, and they were nearly golf ball sized. "Wow!" I think I said, watching them bounce high off of the deck.

She rushed over to the door and closed it. As she did so I couldn't fail to notice the unbelievable bounce of her breasts, especially visible now that her wet shirt was clinging to them so tightly. She could have won a thousand wet T-shirt contests looking exactly like that. Every little movement of her body resulted in some kind of undulation that set my nerves on fire. Deep greenish gray light filtering through the kitchen windows provided just enough contrast to softly mold their rounded shapes, and I could even make out the darker circles of her big aureoles through her now translucent top.

She was turning around to look at me when the power went out. Interestingly, it was through a sudden absence of sound that we knew what had happened, because we hadn't turned on a light. The refrigerator suddenly stopped humming and an odd kind of stillness descended everywhere about us. I held my breath, God knows why. You know that feeling, the moment of disbelief and then the anticipation that the power will flicker back on at any second. But everything remained still and dark, with the exception of the pounding rain and an array of brilliant flashes of lightning, almost immediately followed by loud cracks of thunder.

"I have candles," she said, and opened a drawer to find them. A few seconds later she struck a match and lit a white pillar candle, setting it on the counter. As she rummaged around in another drawer for a second candle, I studied the movements of her breasts in the warm glow. They were really, really big, big enough to cast impressive shadows onto other parts of her body depending on how she was positioned in relationship to the candle's flame.

"I know I have other candles in one of these drawers or cabinets," she said. "Could you help me look, Brian?"

I began with a drawer to the right before she directed me to look in the cabinet below the sink. Squatting on one knee next to her, I opened the doors and was met with too much darkness to have any hope of finding anything without a flashlight. I looked up to tell her this, only to fall mute because of the incredible view I had of her body. She was on tip-toes looking into a high cabinet, the muscles of her legs tensed. Seeing her thighs and calves rippling under her silky skin sent shivers up and down my spine.

Moreover, from this position down low, I could look up the length of her body and see her breasts absolutely powering out up above. My body shuddered, perhaps from the cool touch of my rain-soaked clothes, but more likely because her skin looked so smooth, her ass so firm and round, her legs so toned and tight, her tits so enormous. It's hard to know whether everything I felt then was real, but I'd swear that I could actually feel the woman's pussy, so close to my face, calling out to me. It was like some kind of sexual field was reaching out, enveloping me, wishing to pull me in…

What happened next sealed the deal, and sealed my fate. I was in the act of standing up and she was still raised on her toes peering into that high cabinet, and on the way up my shoulder brushed against something very soft and very heavy, and oh fuck, yes, it was her right tit!

I believe that we both froze for an instant, and the sexual field seemed to erupt and surround the two of us, linking us together. We stood there side by side, motionless, and I could hear her breathing rapidly. Turning towards me, she spoke, her voice soft and kind of broken up.

"You're clothes are soaked," she said.

True enough. I could feel water dripping off the cuffs of my jeans onto my bare feet, and my shirt was stuck to my skin just like hers.

"Brian?" she said. A flash of lightning threw blue light onto her face and her expression was very, very intense.

"Yes?"

"Take your shirt off."

Was this the first real step towards making love to each other? I pulled my shirt off after only a second or two of hesitation, and she held out her hand to take it from me.

When she calmly and neatly folded it and draped it over her faucet, I thought that it might not happen. She was too calm, too collected. But a moment later, with the same slow calm as before, Natasha grasped the bottom of her own wet shirt and pulled it up over her head!

I know I gasped out loud. I’d seen them once before, but when you’re confronted with something so huge and beautiful right in front of you, it rattles the senses. I vaguely saw her fold her shirt and place it over my own, and when I looked up into her eyes, her gaze was already waiting for me. Her lips were parted, just a little, and they looked fuller than I remembered.

"Your pants, now, Brian. Give me your pants."

I was so excited that I couldn't move. I stood there like a statue with my eyes moving up and down between her face and her infuckingcredible tits, and it was like all of my motor functions were frozen with the exception of the pulsing in my dick. The woman's breasts were rising and falling hypnotically, and when I didn't do anything but stare, she cocked her head with a satisfied smile and stepped forward, stopping right at the point where her right breast pushed into the flesh of my abdomen.

"Your pants," she said more forcefully, lowering my zipper.

Some kind of intelligence re-emerged in me, enough to unbutton the clasp of my jeans and step out of them. They were wet and heavy and I half-expected her to take them and fold them like my shirt, but now it was her turn to stare, unmoving. My rigid cock was creating an impressive sight, if I do say so myself. My jockeys were stretched to the limit and she had to know right then and there, consciously this time, just how big I am.

Her hands slowly went out to touch me through my cotton underwear, and her breath caught at the moment of contact. It was just the lightest, sexiest touch, bold and shy and daring and tentative all at the same time. One hand remained there and the other trailed up my front until she planted her open palm against my chest, and then, her voice wavering, she said, "Listen to me, Brian. There... there's a check for the entirety of your work sitting on a cabinet in the living room. If you don't want me to... If you aren't ready to... Then you'd better get dressed and put that check in your pocket and get out of here, fast."

The suggestion was ludicrous, and so fucking ironic. She was trying to give me a chance to avoid being seduced, having no idea that I had set the whole thing in motion months before. The fact that she wouldn’t be burning inside like this without my commands just made things sweeter for me. She thought she was on the verge of corrupting my youth and innocence, totally unaware that I had already pulled her strings.

The most beautiful woman I'd ever known with the biggest and most beautiful tits I'd ever been near had her fingers touching my straining dick through my underwear., and somewhere in this house might be an object that would give me the opportunity to control her completely. Because I am not the most dimwitted human being on the face of the earth, I kissed her. Holding the back of her head in my hands, her wet hair cool to the touch, my lips met hers and she melted against me, her big breasts molding themselves to the front of my body. She moaned in my mouth, a kind of high-pitched moan of surrender, and then her tongue pushed in and began to explore. Our tongues danced together, meeting, darting, twirling.

My hands gradually slid down her strong back until I could cup a wet ass cheek in each hand. Her ass was unbelievably firm, so tight and round and strong, and I could tell from that first firm grasp that every part of her body was going to blow me away. Natasha moaned again and her pelvis moved forward, pushing my erection up and over the elastic band of my underwear. Our long, wet kiss became hotter, more frantic. Her arms had been around my neck, but they lowered and came to the front, and when I felt her fingertips press into the helmeted end of my penis, my ass contracted and my dick moved against her hands. Natasha moaned before hurriedly disengaging her mouth from mine, gasping for air.

"Oh God!" she exclaimed. “You're so... so..." Her voice trailed away, and I felt her hands begin to exert some pressure, squeezing me as though to check that I was real.

I was real, all right, and this was really happening. And I was damned well going to find a way to keep it happening, whether she wanted that or not.