Change of Hart
Keywords: Hart, of, Change,
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*"Synopsis: A sex-obsessed man's perspective on the ways that possession of a mind-controlling device corrupted his soul".*
"A brief comment from Ghosthostblue: None of the usual reminders here about this being a work of fiction, although I assume that names were changed and it seems that dates and place names were intentionally left vague. This account definitely contains sexual situations and examples of less than ideal behavior, so minors should not read it. "
*
*Introduction*
Allow me to begin these recollections by admitting in the very first sentence that I'm a total dick. There, territory established. Being a dick isn't my fault, at least not entirely, although who wants to start a story with a pile of fucking excuses? Anyway, I think I was basically an average person back then, back when these early events took place. My drives were normal, and my relationships with women were no more twisted than the next guy's.
I'm not certain why I'm writing this account — or why I'm being allowed to write it — but it's enlightening to look back to discover when and how rapidly my moral compass went awry. Even now, I sometimes wonder whether there were times when I could have chosen differently. But for a few key events, I might have led a normal life.
Or maybe not. It got away from me so quickly, almost as soon as I met her. I was probably obsessed right from the beginning, and really — I had no clue what I was up against. Given all that I know now, I can see that I was specifically targeted, and would have ended up losing myself even if she hadn't pulled that damned...
But wait, hold on. That's the story. My coming of age story; or, if you will, my cumming for ages story. I'm not a writer by trade, so keep that in mind if you choose to enter this tale, and keep any fucking judgments to yourself, okay? As for the moral equation — well, I already told you I'm a dick. Besides, you might have made the exact same choices if you'd been so lucky, or so cursed.
*Chapter One*
It started with something as innocent as baby-sitting. I was eighteen, and oddly enough it was my mother who first suggested that I baby-sit for Ms. Hart. I reminded my mom that I was no longer a kid, and that it had been almost five years since I'd last performed any baby-sitting duties. Still, she kept twisting my arm.
"I think they'd pay you well," she dangled. "Mr. Hart is a cardiologist."
I got it. One of those joke doctor names, like Dr. Marrow, the guy who fixed my broken clavicle when I was thirteen. Anyway, I'd learned the hard way that the privileged sometimes expected to pay less, as if every person in the world owed them a favor. I explained this to my mother and protested that I had never even met the Harts, so there was no particular reason for them to trust me with their child.
"Oh, nonsense," she replied. "You're my son and they trust me. I know for a fact that they're in a real pinch. Their regular sitter came down with chicken pox. You'd really be helping them out."
I made a couple of other excuses that I can't even remember, but my mother was never one to give up when she believed she knew best.
"Well, you could call and find out," she suggested. "And it could just be this once. What were you going to do tonight that's so important, anyway? You don't have a date, do you?"
No, I didn't, and she knew it. My last girlfriend, Julie, had moved to Hawaii with her folks just before Christmas. I was still aching from the loss, especially since it looked like I might be awkwardly unattached for the upcoming prom.
I'm not even certain why I went ahead and made the most important call of my life. I dialed the number and talked with Ms. Hart. Her son, Josh, was four years old then. I could hear the hope in her voice, and when she coupled her need with an hourly wage that shocked me, we quickly sealed the deal.
"It's only right," she explained. "You're old enough to be well past standard baby-sitting rates. Plus, I know you're only doing me this favor because I poured it on so dramatically with your poor mother."
I was probably a little intrigued with Ms. Hart right from that very first conversation, although I had no clue how dramatically my life had just changed. Her voice sounded young, and there was a faint accent that I couldn't quite place. Her first name was Natasha, which brought visions in my mind of a sharp-featured Russian woman with blonde hair and devious eyes.
I asked my mom a few questions before heading over to their house. She had met the Harts about six months before, at an AIDS awareness fund-raiser. That was my mom back then, always with her hands in some community project. She told me that she got to know Ms. Hart a little better after that, working together to set up an AIDS hotline sponsored by the hospital where Dr. Hart practiced.
"You'll like them," my mother assured me. "Their politics are in the right place even though they are wealthy. Natasha has done some very important volunteer work recently."
Politics. It meant almost nothing to me back then. Fuck, how things change.
*-*-*-*-
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.
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Keywords: Hart, of, Change,