There is little I enjoy more of an evening than grabbing a seductive bottle of Tempranillo or Malbec, and with that in one hand and an over-large wine glass in the other, I tiptoe my way up creaking stairs to the sanctuary of my bedroom. Kicking off my heels I curl myself up in my Lloyd Loom chair and settle in as dusk's purple hues weave and merge amongst the gathering gloom. Settled and content, I survey the smattering of lighted windows and brooding brickwork that is my world, my kingdom.

Welcome to the nightly show. Live theatre. Unscripted. Unrehearsed. No Thespians anguishing over their understanding of the role and whether they've captured every last nuance, just you and me and whomsoever might leave their curtains somewhat ajar. That's if anyone wants to come out and play at all.

Some nights, I simply sit scope in hand, sipping at my wine as blankness and blackness absorb all before my peering, prying eyes. Nothingness; eternal, unremarkable, consuming nothingness. And on nights such as these, my mind frequently returns to the morality of my own behaviour, the subtle justifications I find. Shouldn't leave the lights on. Shouldn't leave the curtains ajar. Shouldn't wear short skirts and high heels and wander around mildly drunk on dimly lit streets. Shouldn't display their disgusting, degrading, private debauchery in the comfortable sanctuary of their own home for just anyone to watch through a spotting scope or pair of binoculars. They have to take some responsibility here. If they're prepared to flaunt themselves well certainly I can't be responsible for the consequences of their activities.

Some are just morally repugnant, undeserving of any respect. Arabella and Gordon's light is on again tonight, their racist, homophobic, anti-Semitic, Islamophobic, misogynistic, English entitlement brilliantly displayed against a backdrop of chintz and tasteless tat. Even as I curl myself a little tighter in my chair and take another sip of my wine, I can hear his braying voice assertively quoting the Right Honourable Member of Parliament for Uxbridge and South Ruislip:

"watermelon smiles"

"tank-topped bumboys"

"picaninnies"

"walking around like letterboxes"

"pat her bottom and send her on her way"

Why should I care anything for their feelings, their rights, their entitlements when they so clearly have no regard for others? If Arabella wants to tweak and tug at Gordon's hair-fluffed nipples, or run a perfectly manicured nail inquisitively up his shaft, or close her lips about his smooth, swollen cock-head, or run his length teasingly between her dripping lips as he moans in ecstatic expectation, or bite down fiercely on his flesh as she welcomes him into her burning cunt, or slap his reddening cheeks as she mounts and impales herself on this thickening, pulsing cock, or throw back her head in moaning, near ecstatic pleasure, or drive her arse cheeks insistently down, slapping against his thighs, or grab at his bottom lip with her teeth as he slobbers his appreciation, or roll him over so she may guide her strap-on into his wanting arse, or slap at his still stiff cock as it hangs unloved and unrequired between his thighs, or pound her hips into mottled buttocks as her plastic cock repeatedly skewers his sphincter, or scream abuse at his pathetic form as his cock twitches and spurts its seed in descending arcs between his widespread feet, or force him to kneel in subjugation before her regal phallus, or insist on him lapping and slurping and gobbling at its filth smeared head, or clasp at his head as she rams it deep into his throat revelling in his helpless slathering whimpers, or free him only to guide his abused mouth between her soaked and trembling thighs, or smear his face in her juices as she grinds her way towards her inevitable release, or arch her back, or expose her neck as head thrown back she pants her pleasure towards the tasteless ceiling rose as her breasts heave, her stomach quivers spastically as finally, violently she finds her orgasmic release. If she wants to do that, if she cares not to seal her world in privacy, if she continues unthinking about the world outside her window, then why shouldn't I enjoy some cunt twinging, erotic stimulation at their privacy's expense?

But this isn't a story about Arabella and Gordon and their putrid, hate-filled lives, this is a story about Beth and Daisy so I shall have to drag my sight-line about twenty degrees clockwise to see what delights they might have in store. As I expected, their curtains are shuttered tight with just insignificant slithers of light bleeding out into the enveloping world. You see, Beth and Daisy value their privacy and with good reason for they're, and I'm going to whisper this because I don't wish to be overheard, lesbians.

Now I know what you're thinking. What silly nonsense is this? They're lesbians, so what? Well, it might be all fine and dandy for those of you living in the gleaming metropolises of the twenty-first century but out here in the bucolic shires, the 1950s are alive, well and conspicuous. Believe me, there is no acceptance of difference or of otherness. Lesbians are unnatural, the bastard children of Sodom and Gomorrah, dykes, muff divers, rug munchers, bean flickers, munch bunchers, and todger dodgers, they're feministas in need of fucking until their silly little brains rattle within their empty heads and they come to the realisation that all they ever really wanted was a strong, thick cock and some alpha manhood they could idolise.

Worse still, they're both immigrants. Okay, not bona fide first-generation immigrants; both were born in this 'green and pleasant land' but their genetic make-up doesn't quite match the acceptable Briton, Celt, Roman, Saxon, Angle, Norse, Norman, Jewish, Dutch, Huguenot, DNA that defines Englishness. Beth's partly Vietnamese forebears make themselves obvious in her slight frame, dark straight hair and facial features and whilst Daisy's genetic heritage is less obvious, there is something Mediterranean about her tight, dark curled hair, honeyed skin and expressive eyebrows; Italianate maybe or Lebanese or possibly even a nomadic Roma washed up on these pallid shores.

Theirs are private lives, by necessity. Secretive, tamped down, skulking at the margins of daily life. I've hardly ever seen them together outside of their nest and on those rare occasions, they exhibit none of the casual affection of coupledom; no hand-holding, no unthinking tender caresses, no sensual meetings of lips or fluttering eyelashes. Even singularly they run the gauntlet of disapproval; for I have heard the bench dwelling old ladies and their hard of hearing spite, seen the deliberate daily meaningful slights, observed the crotch-grabbing lads with their callous taunts, and the pram pushing mums whispering venomous words. But always they have each other to suckle, to nurture, to sustain. Their own bijou space of privacy hidden away behind brick and glass, safety and security set apart from the tumorous malignant world.

They have a dog called Betty. A small, snuffling, pissing creature. And twice a day, Beth emerges to wander slowly around the park with it in tow. Daisy never walks it, but oftentimes she can be observed seated in their window casting attentive glances at their progression rather like a mother duck nervously supervising her ducklings' first aquatic adventures. Like Daisy, I have taken to viewing Beth and Betty's circumnavigation. It's not a chore. Beth has adopted a pixie, computer geek look; pinafore dresses over some trend-inspired t-shirt, bare legs, ankle socks and Mary Janes with an elasticated choker to grace her neck. She makes for very pleasant viewing ambling alongside Betty as, tail aloft and nose fixed firmly to the floor she snuffles her way across the mossy sward seeking out blades of grass offensive to her olfactory sense. Whenever such a sweet spot is identified she'll press her nostrils firmly against it, circle her back legs the full 360 degrees before squatting atop it and releasing a few precious droplets of her own scented urine to mask the offence. All the while Beth stands patiently to one side an intoxicating vision of serenity. Until, once again, they continue their unhurried perambulation snuffling towards the next pee break.

It is one of the small delights in my days. Days that have little but small delights to fill them. Yet even from my first viewing, there was always something not quite right in their behaviour, something that jarred, that clanged rather than chimed, and it took me many, many days of peering and prying to figure out what it might be. The devil, as often is the case, was in the detail.

Betty, once she'd finished seeping her scent, would stand looking across at Beth waiting for her to start moving them onwards. Yet Beth, rather than paying attention to her canine companion always seemed lost in her own personal contemplation. Her brow slightly furrowed, her eyes staring off unseeing, her teeth nibbling at her bottom lip and frequently a hand pressed flat to her stomach. Then, after a few moments, as if a switch had been flicked, she'd refocus on Betty and the pair of them would shuffle forward towards their next undefined destination.

It was all quite perplexing.

I mulled and after a couple of days I reached a conclusion; probably wrong, probably a reflection of my own slightly twisted mind, definitely based on what I wanted to be happening rather than any over-riding and compelling evidence. I decided that each and every time Betty squatted down to pee Beth allowed a trickle of her own golden liquid to escape her nether lips and shower the loveliness of her inner thighs. What's more, I figured that whatever was good for the goose was also good for the gander, or to be more precise whatever was good for the goose soaking her panties as she wandered about the parkland was good for the goose curled up in her chair peering with maximum magnification at those naked, smooth thighs in the hope of catching sight of gilded dribble.

I started wearing panties. I drank more liquid, kept myself hydrated, ensured the pressure on my bladder was a constant throb. I concentrated on my Kegel exercises, anytime and anywhere, determined to gain complete control over my pelvic muscles. I stalked her movements, her timetable, her daily routine to ensure that whenever she and Betty might emerge I would be safely ensconced in my viewing chair, scope handy, bladder swollen and expectant, my muscles twitching in expectation.

Oh, what bliss. Tracing her movements. Cunt muscles aquiver. The normal plateau of my stomach swollen to a pleasing bump. Knees crossed and thighs tightly clenched. Urinary tract aching with need and pressure. The trembling of my fingers about the scope as I flit from dog to face to thighs. My spare hand smoothing at my newfound bump. Its occasional inconsiderate squishing bringing small gasps to my lips. The tremulous expectation. Waiting. Pleading. Hopeful.

Betty squats. Tectonic plates collide sending tremors racing through my tensed muscles. The scope scans across to find Beth's face consumed in distant concentration. I can feel a small magma seepage burning through the cracks in my epidermis. Droplets, warm and reassuring, escaping the tight channel of my urethra to trickle across my panty concealed flesh. I relax and mellow into the warmth, muscles stretching out, a cat before a blazing hearth, revelling in the slowly spreading glow between my thighs.

They step forward. Ambling on in meandering half steps as my musculature clamps down hard causing reticent whimpers to trickle from my upper lips. Tracking movement, lip nibbling, muscles aching, until once more, just a few steps on they pause. Blissful release. The trickle of wetness dribbling down to pool in my clenched anal star before meandering purposefully between the valley of my squashed buttocks. Clinging fabric absorbing each escaping particle, drawing them into its weaved net, claiming them. The heat scalding at my skin, coating it, turning it slick and slippery. Rivulets forming in every crease of flesh.

Whimpers have become soft pants before we move on once more. Tension resumes. Panties clinging to the petals of my sex like greaseproof paper on the base of a cake, hiding the swollen deliciousness. Muscles complain, agonising in the demands of each scrutinized step. Unhelpful fingers kneading insistent into the swollen reservoir of my stomach, increasing the suffering, the ache, the want.

Golden deliverance oozing barely impeded. Coating all. Stomach quivering. Nipples tight buds rubbing themselves insistently against their fabric confines. Buttocks squirming in the pooling liquid. Stain spreading. The open sore of my sex secreting its desire in barely controlled spurts as my body trembles and moans, drenched and heated about its relentlessly spasming core. Vulva, labia, clitoris mere islands of saturated flesh amongst the marshland of my cunt.

Haltingly Beth and Betty continue their steady progression unconcerned for either my liquid state or my Pavlovian responses until eventually, with me reduced to sopping, trembling flesh, they once more reach the pillars and lintel of their front door.

I'm ashamed to admit this but no sooner do they depart my field of vision than I fling my scope aside, stuff both hands into my drenched panties, and masturbate. Usually in my pee-soaked chair, a single finger slipping and sliding their way across the slick, swollen nub of my clitoris, a pair of their counterparts stirring and mixing golden urine with the thick viscosity of my cunt's juicy excretion. Fingers that curl in on themselves caressing at the hidden pocket of my slit as they seek the stiffened base of my abused clit. Twice trapped. Twice abused. Free-flowing liquid coating my digits, streaming down the back of my hand, soaking my wrist, splattering my thighs, squelching in wild lustful abandon as viciously I slap my fingers into the sinkhole of my sex.

Sometimes, just occasionally, the need of my bladder beyond bearing, I stagger my way on shaky legs to the adjacent en suite where perching atop a porcelain pedestal I relax my straining muscles in a shower of saffron splendour as my spearheaded fingers slash their way into my squirting, cum drenched, orgasming piss-hole. And once, but only once, I ended up slumped in the shower cubicle, everything below the waist a messy, drenched pulp of barely functioning flesh.

So my absorption continued day after day, and sometimes twice daily. My body discomfited without a full bladder, my trained muscles alternating between squeezing and fluttering, and each and every time Betty and Beth would appear I'd be scrunched up trickling with need. Once in a while, my scoping eye might flit across to catch sight of Daisy perched in her nest; all tight curls, upthrust watermelon breasts and ribbed tops; but I never lingered. After all, privacy is private and it's rude to intrude.

Which brings me to 'That Tena Moment'.

Engrossed as I was with cake, Celia, and cathartic ranting, I didn't immediately notice Betty and Beth snuffling and shuffling their way across the park. At least my eyes didn't. My cunt was somewhat more observant both to its surroundings and its expected behaviour and just as I was about to start my diatribe on dogging and flashing and Celia and I disappearing into the Rhododendron to inspect each other's neighbourly charms, it let free a small trickle to warn me of their arrival. Perhaps it was the missing pinafore dress that confused my distracted brain, or the starkly outlined erect nipples rubbing themselves against the traditional t-shirt. A t-shirt stretched tight and tucked into a pair of high-waisted, mid-wash, skinny, stretch jeans that clung snug to her flesh down to just above her ankles. Or maybe it was the possibility of stain spotting atop her inner thighs and along the denim's gusset.

Torn for attention, my brain stopped functioning; words stuttering to a halt, eyes flicking between Celia and Betty/Beth's approach, my urethra muscles freed of mental constraint. And as Celia pronounces that indeed I am correct in my belief that I am descending into madness Betty/Beth reached a pause point directly before our bench, no more than a dozen strides from our coffee and cake selection. Betty squats, and then, as both Celia and I stare on in growing disbelief a darkened stain started to spread from between Beth's thighs. Mid-wash turning dark denim from cunt to knee.

And my cunt complied. Glorious warmth spreading between my thighs, soaking through my panties and into the thin fabric beneath my wriggling buttocks. Helpless to prevent weeks of automated responses, my muscles clamping desperate to prevent a tell-tale puddle forming beneath the wooden slats.

"Somebody forgot their Tena pad this morning."

Who? I looked across at Celia. Who was she talking about? Me? But her eyes were still staring straight forward in shock at the sight of Beth's piss-stained crotch as she stood flushed and proud before us.

I fled. As quickly as I could. A blurted, rubbish, near-incomprehensible excuse, my feet rushing away as quickly as a full bladder, sodden clinging dress and four-inch heels would allow across the rough tarmac paths. Deserting Celia, rushing home to clamber stairs and fling myself into my Lloyd Loom as my fingers scrabbled for the scope.

I just caught her. The sight of her sodden buttocks and slippery thighs wiggling towards her front door. Unfair. She couldn't disappear on me now. I have needs. I have desires. I have aches. I have an itch that must be tended to. I flick the scope across to their window, focus in on the waiting Daisy. Fuck private. Fuck privacy. It would be rude not to intrude into their abnormal, amoral, sapphic perversions. If they don't like it then shut the fucking curtains when you fuck. Entertain me. Give me everything my expectant cunt desires.

Beth steps into view, back to the window, facing the seated Daisy, her sodden crotch level with her paramour's face, an easy reach for Daisy’s hands that are now traversing the pee shrunken fabric. Grazing fingers teasing at the wetness, moving ever upwards until they slip and slide along the thickened seam of the gusset. Beth's head falls backwards, her neck exposed, eyes cast upwards to the...