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.