I have A Room With A View though this is no Merchant Ivory production; no Helena Bonham-Carter, no Daniel Day-Lewis, neither Judi Dench nor Maggie Smith, not even Denholm Elliott or Julian Sands. No, mine is far more Hitchcockian, more Rear Window with me as both Jimmy Stewart and Grace Kelly; all cocktail dresses, taffeta and décolletage and an itch that I never seem quite able to scratch.

I am a curtain twitcher. A busy body. A peeping tometina, if you wish. A pair of prying eyes and a mind filled with the certainty that everybody else’s business is my business. Every community has me, every community needs me. I keep you all safe from the petty vandalism of exuberant youth and pour scorn on the debauched, depraved behaviour of my neighbours. Without me standards would slip.

Four panes of glass to separate, to insulate me from the world. Beyond an oval of urban park, decorated with a meandering path and an insubstantial collection of trees and benches, hemmed in on all sides by my near neighbours. Here we come to walk our dogs, to take our government prescribed hour of outdoor exercise, to meet strangers, neighbours and friends for socially distanced conversation, to perch precariously at either end of paint flecked and rotted wooden benches as we grumble about our days, before, once again, retreating behind our solid doors to become shadow puppets passing across lighted windows.

If I should sneak a peek I’m sure to capture someone going about their daily business impervious to my attentive gaze.

See.

There.

Striding across the green bedecked in corduroy and tweed is Mr Gordon Porter. A puffed up hunk of meat swollen by his own importance; flesh flushed from a toxic combination of high blood pressure, 12 year whiskey malts and years spent propping up our local bar whilst demanding we all pay attention to his objectionable opinions.

And there is Arabella, Mrs Arabella Porter. The only person I know who averts their gaze to pick up dog shit. Queen of the twinset and pearls brigade; nose permanently upturned, make up more appropriate for a Victoriana porcelain doll, and that blow dried helmet hairstyle so adored by the ladies of the Tory Shires. If you put her in a police line up alongside Edwina Currie and Norma Major you could have hours of fun playing spot the difference.

I’m sorry. I’m going to stop there. I’m English and as such my stories are full of English idioms and cultural references. I know it’s inconvenient but that’s just the way it is. Sorry.

Until very recently I was European but 52% of the residents of these sceptred Isles decided that I can’t be that any more. So briefly I was British but it seems that my Celtic cousins are quite reasonably a bit disappointed with being endlessly ignored and lectured, and so, it seems that every day I diminish and become a little less. So now I am merely English and eventually I shall become just a flyspeck of history and will be forgotten and ignored.

But I digress, so let us return to Gordon and Arabella, and if you should return just a little after dark then we can settle in together and see what we might discover. Don’t worry, I’ve got a couple of spare pairs of binoculars, it will be almost like being in the room with them, you won’t miss a thing. Theirs is the 3rd and 4th window from the left, ground floor, the room with the plastic covered seating, floral wallpaper and Royal Doulton decorating every surface. If you focus in on the fringed shepherdess lamp. That’s it. Now just a little patience, I’m sure they won’t keep us long.

Into the assembled chintz ambles a naked body clutching a half filled tumbler. Well it appears naked from my vantage point, though truth be told he might be wearing socks, possibly even socks with suspenders. Gordon isn’t much improved by the removal of clothing. The fine spiders web of capillaries in his face seem more pronounced, his head a small flushed boulder set atop a somewhat larger and altogether more fluid torso. His chest covered in a thick silver down of hair that all but obscures the smallness of his nipples wobbling atop his moobs. Below which his paunch, definitely more whisky barrel than tight six pack, hangs slightly at his belt line until disappearing into the thick, untended undergrowth of his pubic hair which all but obscures the unimpressive collection of soft dangling objects collected between his thighs. Certainly, no blackbird was going to get fat feasting on that wriggling little worm.

He turns, revealing a surprisingly shapely and lightly haired arse, his hand caught in raising his glass to his mouth as his lips move in conversation. I crane myself sideways trying to get my first glimpse of her but the angle isn’t there and she remains tantalisingly hidden from view. I flick back to him. The glass has been raised and he’s guzzling the contents in quick gulps as he stares off towards the hidden side of the room.

Gradually she reveals herself; backlit in silhouette at first until, as she steps forward, exposed in her near nakedness. She’s a little dumpier than I’d imagined with a thickness about her hips that would have been a blessing during childbirth. The skin about her neck has a light crepe paper wrinkle, her heavy breasts showing the effects of gravity’s downward pull, her nipples and areola merged to create teardrop birthmarks to decorate her swaying flesh.

She’s near naked, her only concessions to decorum being a pair of black satin gloves that cover her arms fingertip to elbow and a harness about her flared hips from which a slender 8” dildo protrudes with determined insistence.

Gordon stiffens as she steps close, his fingers tight about his glass, a tremble on his thighs, a flit of his eyes across her flesh. A gloved hand reaches out to relieve him of his near empty tumbler as the dildo tip grazes playfully against the inside of his thigh.

Arabella treats herself to a small sip of the amber liquid, her free hand trailing down to between Gordon’s thighs to cup the soft, squidgy ball sacs well concealed amongst his rampant underbrush.

It’s hard, dear reader, to keep proper watch through a pair of binoculars. Hard to flit between the triple attractions of Gordon’s reddening face, Arabella’s lascivious lip and the steady, demanding, insistent kneading of her fingers as they manipulate swollen, cum filled sacs. But, for you, I will do my best.

She places her cheek on the soft fur of his chest; mouth moving, words caressing his skin, satin clad fingers abusive between his thighs, squeezing insistently at his trapped plums. His mouth parted, moaning at her ministrations, eyes watering, cheeks flushed with alcohol and desire.

She captures his small white worm, lays it across the black satin of her palm, fingertips digging into its base, tugging persistent and relentless, feeling it grow at her touch. Elver. Slow worm. Snake. A floppy white thickening and engorged piece of flesh wriggling against the sheened fabric.

Her mouth finds his nipple. Sharp, well maintained teeth bite viciously into the softness of his moobs, wetness glistening on his cheeks, the worm near erect twitching determinedly at each touch. Balls squeezed hard. A sobbing cry filling the room. Cock grasped, wanked, the whole of her hand gripping his length, her hand rapid in its insistence.