I settled myself down on the settee and tried to concentrate on my latest book. Although I was reading each word, my mind was elsewhere and it was making no sense. I knew by now that this was a time of day when my observer was usually lurking. Suddenly I looked up, and with a lurch in my stomach I saw the familiar rustle of curtain from Number 27a. So, I thought, Thomas Moore is in. I went back to my book for a couple of minutes. By now I had given up any notion of trying to read it and simply stared at each page for a while before blankly turning it over. Well, Thomas Moore, I thought, I hope you're still there and didn't get frightened off. The show is about to begin.

Still pretending to read the book I was holding, I casually raised my left hand to my breast. I left it resting there for a moment. Slowly, I started to draw tiny circles around my nipple with my index finger, dragging the nail against the fabric. Immediately, the nipple began to grow and harden; gripping it between my finger and thumb I squeezed gently, rolling it back and forward. I traced my finger around the nipple again, edging outwards onto my areola and gradually increased the circumference of my circles to encompass the whole of my breast. Before long, my hand was cupping it, stroking, kneading, teasing. I pulled the fabric of the tee-shirt taut against my skin, causing my erect nipple to jut out provocatively; pushing from below, I thrust my breast upwards, then pressed it to the left and down again; over and over, my hand gripped it, massaging it in rhythmic circles.

By now I had cast the book aside, and my other hand was free to minister to my right breast, fingertips spiralling around the areola, nails catching on the quarter-inch nipple. I had started this as a dispassionate exhibition for my observer, but I was getting transported by the sensations, borne away by the moment. The thought of being watched as I performed added a deliciously wanton dimension to the experience, investing in it an extra erotic charge.

I was sitting with my legs tucked underneath me on the settee. I unhooked my left leg and trailed it over the edge, still keeping my knees together. Slightly adjusting my position, I was now directly facing the window. I ran my left hand downwards over my tee-shirt, fingers outstretched, caressing my stomach. My little finger clasped the bottom of my shirt and eased it outwards, allowing my hand to slip beneath it. I retraced my route over my stomach, this time without the encumbrance of the fabric, my fingers delighting in the touch of my flesh. I reached my right breast and fastened onto my nipple, now so hard it was aching, squeezing and stimulating it, the pain pleasurable and the pleasure painful. Meanwhile, I ran my right hand downwards over my shorts and pressed against my mons. I could feel my pussy hair as a faint bulge through the panties and shorts as my fingers explored and smoothed over them. My pussy was getting very wet by now, as I thought of the show I was putting on.

I relaxed my left leg and it fell away, leaving me sitting open legged, directly facing the window. My fingers edged downwards and pressed against my pussy, my palm pushing directly against my clit. I ran my index and fourth finger up and down either side of my lips. Through the lycra I found that a firm hand was effective but I couldn't get the sensitive contact that I craved. Lifting my bum off the settee, I rolled my shorts down and kicked them off, leaving me seated in my white, cotton panties, now with a patch so damp it was glistening. My fingers began their tour up and down my lips again, this time sending waves of passion through me as they made better contact. I knew I wouldn't be able to continue like this much longer without coming, and I didn't want to lose control just yet, so reluctantly I eased the pressure of my probing fingers.

Beside me on the settee was my mobile phone, on which I had programmed the telephone number for 27a. Hiding it from the window with my body, I pressed the quick dial. I lodged it against my right ear, while continuing to play my fingers over my body in the hope that my observer wouldn't notice. The phone rang for perhaps nine or ten times, and I though he wasn't going to answer, but just as I was beginning to deflate I heard a click on the line as the connection was made.

"Hello?" the voice said.

"Enjoying the show?" I asked. There was a pause.

"Pardon?"

"Enjoying the show?" I said again. "This is Thomas Moore isn't it?"

"Yes,"

"And you've been observing the woman in the house opposite for the last ten minutes, haven't you?"

There was silence again. It went on for several seconds, and I thought he was going to hang up.

"Who is this?" he asked, finally.

"Who is this?" I repeated. "Who is this? Somebody who knows more about you than you would probably like."

"Who IS it?" he said again, his voice rising in pitch and volume as his anxiety grew.

"Who do you think it is, Thomas Moore?" I replied. "Who have you been spying on for the last ten minutes? Who have you been spying on for the last four weeks? Have a look out of your window again." With that, I moved my mobile so that it was visible from the window opposite. I waited for some moments, and then the line went dead, as Thomas Moore hung up on me. I re-dialled and left the phone to ring maybe thirty or forty times before it was answered again.

"You see now, Thomas Moore?" I asked. "I know that you have been watching me." Again, there was a lengthy pause.

"I'm sorry,"

"Hah!" I retorted. "Like hell you are. So what should I do? Call the police?" He began to plead, apologising again for what he had done and begging me not to call the police. He sounded genuinely alarmed.

"Okay, Thomas Moore, here's what happens. Can you move your phone so that you can see the window?"

"Yes," he replied, "there's a long cable."

"Good. I want you to take down your net curtain. Now."

"But..." he started to say.

"No, Thomas Moore! No buts, no excuses. Just get on with it, or I call the police. Don't bore me." There was silence. I hoped he didn't call my bluff, because I had no Plan B. It was with huge relief, then, that I saw movement across the road. The net curtain shook and contorted, then finally began to fall away from the window. One end was unhooked and the whole thing fell away to the other side. In that instant the room beyond, that mysterious, anonymous place that had filled my thoughts for the past four weeks, was unveiled. It wasn't frightening any more, or intimidating, or threatening. I could see neutrally painted walls, probably magnolia, and a central light with a dowdy cream coloured uplighter. There didn't seem to be much furniture. The curtain fell away completely as the other side was unhooked and I caught my first glimpse of Thomas Moore.

I reached for the second of the props I had secreted in the settee before I began, a pair of binoculars. They were something of a family heirloom, a pair of racing glasses which didn't offer especially great magnification, but were sufficient for this particular job. I focussed them on the room opposite. Thomas Moore was standing in front of the bare window, He was about forty, I suppose, in reasonable shape. His hair was receding, but at least he was making no effort to hide the fact. I couldn't make out his eye colour, but they appeared to be deep set, nestled beneath thick eyebrows. His nose was sexily long and straight, drawing one's eye to a mouth which was probably a bit too effeminate and puffy. Well, I thought, he isn't Mr Universe, but he isn't my worst nightmare either.

"Thomas Moore, can you hear me?" I shouted into my mobile. He stretched over and picked up an old fashioned British Telecom phone, replying that he could hear me, loud and clear.

"Splendid, Thomas Moore." I continued. "Here's what I want you to do: strip off." There was silence again. "I warned you before, Thomas Moore, don't bore me, or I'll call the police. Don't imagine I won't. So strip off. Stand at the back of the room and nobody will be able to see you except me. You've spent the last month spying on me, trying to catch a look and, today, you thought your luck was in. Well, it's my turn now. Get 'em off!"

From the window I could see Thomas Moore standing staring at me, forlorn and hopeless, a man with no notion of what to do next.

"If I hang up, it will be to ring the police," I warned. That seemed to galvanise him, and his hand moved towards his shirt; reluctantly, not looking out of the window at me, he began to unfasten the buttons. His chest and stomach emerged, hairy and a bit portly, and he swung the shirt off one arm, then the other. He paused for a moment, as though summoning up courage, then unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers. He slid them down and stepped out of them; facing me, he stood in pants and socks. Lifting his left leg, he rolled one sock off, then repeated the process with the other. Finally, after another agonising pause, he pulled his underpants down, bending slightly to slip them off his leg. Thomas Moore, my would-be voyeur, was standing before me, stark naked. The tables were turned.

"Excellent, Thomas Moore," I shouted over the phone. "A quick pirouette now, if you please. Do a twirl for me, let me have a good look at you." Once again, he paused before complying, as if trying to gauge the consequences of not doing as asked. Then he turned on his right foot and completed a turn for me. "Again," I said, "with your hands in the air." He did as I asked, and I could see that he had a semi erection.

"What's this, Thomas Moore?" I crowed. "Getting excited are we? Is this turning you on?" He could hear me, but was making no effort to reply. "Well, is it?" I shouted down the phone.

He nodded at me, looking pathetic and downtrodden, a hangdog expression on his face.

"Well, we'll have to do something about that, won't we?" I continued. "I can't help you, of course, so you'll have to do it yourself."

There was silence while what I had said sunk in. When it did he looked appalled and shook his head vigorously.

"Yes, Thomas Moore, start playing with yourself. I want to watch you jack yourself off. It's what you thought you were going to do with me isn't it? Thought you could spy on me doing that? Well, now I'm going to watch you. Get going...." I brought my binoculars to my face again and focussed them as Thomas Moore steeled himself for what was about to happen. He was left handed, I noticed, as his hand slipped around his cock. It was a reasonable size, about six inches maybe, or a little less, and quite thick, with a circumcised end.

"Look at me while you do it, Thomas Moore," I commanded. "I want to see your face, look into your eyes." His hand began to stroke rhythmically up and down his cock, a steady pace, fairly fast. He was probably trying to get it over with. "Slow down, Thomas Moore. Enjoy it," I told him, and he adjusted his stroke for me, increasing its length and slowing its speed. I watched for probably three or four minutes, aware that my pussy was damp again, and that I was being turned one by making this man act for me.

Holding the binoculars with my left hand, I slid my right inside my panties and scratched over my trimmed pussy hair, fingers searching for my moist slit. My index finger slid into the valley, pressing against my clit and grazing against my labia, its progress eased by the juices which were oozing from me. Alternating between provoking my clitoris and teasing my lips, I continued to watch my performer, who was surely close to coming.

Picking up the phone, I shouted "Are you ready to come for me, Thomas Moore?" Over the road, he nodded to me, a look of concentration on his face. I could see now that he was indeed close, which excited me even more. Slipping my middle finger deep inside my pussy, I rubbed my index and fourth finger firmly up and down my outer lips, with my thumb taking over clitoris duties. I could feel the familiar sensations welling up inside me, the lightness of body, the clearness of mind, the tingling, almost burning in my thighs, my sphincter muscles contracting.

Thomas Moore had reached the point of no return. Leaning backwards, head raised slightly, his wrist movements were rapid and short. As he reached critical mass his hand was a blur, and then I could see a spurt of come fly out of his cock, landing a few inches in front of him. Another followed, and another, and then a few final drops as his climax subsided. Watching him spill his seed proved too much for me and my own climax was triggered. Continuing to rub my fingers over my lips, but avoiding my clit, which was by now too sensitive, I rode the waves of passion, juices surging out of me, covering my fingers and soaking my panties. The moment came, then I was afloat for what seemed like hours, drifting on a sea of pleasure. The spasms passed through me, building to a peak, then subsiding, floating off into memory. I took my fingers into my mouth, inhaling the aroma and licking off my fluids, savouring their salty flavour. My pussy was tingling, aflame, lips still thick and puffy. I was aware of a glow emanating from it and spreading throughout my body. My skin was still tender all over, sensitive to the touch of my fingers as I stroked and caressed my legs and thighs.

Having finished, Thomas Moore was now looking embarrassed, standing slightly hunched before me. His erection had subsided, but his red face testified to his excitement. I allowed him to gather his clothes together and pull them back on.

"Well, Thomas Moore," I said into my phone, "I hope you enjoyed that." I thought I saw him nod slightly, his head bowed, holding his hands in front of him like a naughty schoolboy. "I expect you realise," I concluded, "that you will do anything I tell you."

Thomas Moore nodded.