Unusually, we were not all booked into the same hotel, but had to make our own arrangements. My secretary had sorted out accommodation for me, assuring me that she had booked me into a good quality, three star hotel which had come highly recommended. Recommended by whom she didn't say, but my guess would be a family of unfastidious cockroaches. As I surveyed my room on the Friday evening, taking in the frayed, greying bedspread, the bed which seemed to be on a 45° slope, the wardrobe with no coathangers and the black and white television cunningly placed so high on the wall you would need binoculars to see it, I resolved to check out the next morning and find myself somewhere more salubrious. Like a YWCA. My secretary was in trouble when I returned to work the next week.

I ran myself a shower, no easy feat as it appeared to have only two settings, back-blisteringly hot and nipple freezingly cold. That done, I poured a glass of wine from the bottle I had sensibly brought with me - minibar? Some chance - and which was now chilling in the bathroom sink, and sunk back on the bed. This was going to be a long weekend.

I intended going into the city later on to sample the night life. I'm not a great lover of London, but late night in Soho is usually good fun, and there would be an arthouse cinema somewhere with something challenging in a foreign language which I could convince myself was enriching my cultural sensibilities while I waited for the naughty bits. Europeans do sex on screen so much better than the British, and as for the Americans? Hollywood directors wouldn't recognise erotica if it sneaked up on them and gave them a blowjob in the queue at the shopping mall.

And there goes my chance of pitching this story to the moguls...

But indolence swept over me. I lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling, trying to decide if the curious stain next to the light really was semen, and contemplating what kind of hunk, in what state of arousal, could have got it there.

The curtains had been closed when I arrived, and I swung on to my feet to open them. I expected to see a view over car-choked streets, but as the curtains parted I caught sight of a huge block of flats about fifty yards away. It was about ten storeys high, and from my room on the fifth floor I had a good view up and down; there were about twenty or so windows on each floor, mostly unlit, but in a few there were signs of activity. Hmm, I thought, things might be looking up.

I suppose you could say I am an inveterate watcher. I have distinct exhibitionist tendencies, of course, and the two often go hand in hand. Suddenly, the search for an arthouse film in Soho became less appealing, and I began to anticipate some home made entertainment, watching for signs of life in the flats opposite.

I flicked off my room light, manouevred the moth-eaten chair in front of my window, gathered my wine and settled back. It was about nine pm by this time, and the light was fading fast. More and more lights were being turned on in the flats; many closed their curtains immediately and a few really uptight ones closed the curtains before turning on their lights. Quite a few, however, left their curtains open. There would be a few exhibitionists, I knew. This arrangement was too tempting, a captive, probably bored audience in a hotel just yards opposite, and I had no doubt that I would see some flesh before the night was out. But what sort? That was the intriguing question, the hook that would keep me in rapt attention at my window. Male, female? Young, old? Flabby, skinny? Beautiful, ugly? Who knew, and that was the excitement of it.

A couple of windows initially looked promising. One, on about the eighth floor, to my right, seemed to look on to a kitchen, but beyond I thought I spied the bathroom. In the hallway I got infuriating glimpses of life, a flash of a body too fast to make out any detail. The other, on the second floor, which gave me a good vantage point looking down into it, was a bedroom. It was a tiny room, with only a bed, unmade and rumpled, and a wardrobe. There was an open door and a lit hallway. Someone would emerge soon, I felt.

My eyes flitted from room to room, taking in a full sweep of the block every minute or so, checking for new action. Finally, after about ten minutes or so, I saw life in the eighth storey kitchen. A young woman, and behind her a man. They appeared to be having an argument, animated, waving their hands and gesticulating wildly. That wasn't promising. The man took off his shirt. That was.

He paraded around the room, although I couldn't discern what he was doing. The woman, little more than a girl, actually, was less active, seemingly ignoring him and looking in some cupboards. I tried to work out what they were doing, and suspected they were getting ready to go out. The man had tried on a couple of different shirts and discarded them, and the woman flitted back and forth between the kitchen and the bathroom.

In my second floor action point someone had appeared. He was mid forties or early fifties, plump to the point of fatness, and wearing a dressing gown. I would see more of him, I felt certain.

Directly above him, two floors up, a light went on and a woman entered what looked like a living room. There was no regularity in these apartments, that was for sure: every one seemed totally different. She had clearly just arrived home, and she divested herself of her coat and kicked off her shoes. Reaching behind her, she slipped off first one earring and then the other. The telltale signs of a woman returning home from work: I smiled, wondering how often I had performed that identical ritual. Now, if she was to do what I occasionally do next we could be on for something interesting...

But, alas, no. She disappeared, presumably to make something to eat. Still, this was a room to watch for later, I felt. I liked the look of her.

Suddenly, unaccountably, my eyes were drawn to the eighth floor, and I was finally rewarded. The girl had returned, and at the moment I focussed my eyes on the room she gripped her light blue tee shirt and pulled it over her head, revealing a fine pair of tiny tits, unencumbered by a bra. For an instant she was framed in the window, her perfect breasts displayed for me, and then she was gone, bending over sideways. She reappeared with another top and proceeded to put it on. First success of the evening, though.

Part of the joy of observing like this is fantasising what is happening and what might happen next. I began to invent stories for the young couple, creating for them a history and a future: it is like seeing characters in a work of fiction walking about and interacting, a framework on which I can build any story I like. That is why I write, and it is why I love to observe: all writers are voyeurs.

Ah, action below. Yes, there we go, I knew it. Mr Flab had removed his dressing gown and was walking about naked. As soon as I spotted him I had him marked down for an exhibitionist. How far would he go? He didn't have much to display, it had to be said. Fat people are ill-served by their paunches, of course, because they tend to have a foreshortening effect on their penises, making them appear even smaller than they are. And this did appear to be a small one. Still, he seemed pleased with it, striding about the room confidently and, it has to be said, completely aimlessly. Aimless, that is, except for purposes of displaying himself. I wondered what he would think if he knew I was watching. Would that excite him? Yes, it certainly would, I think.

No sign of action from two floors up, but another light had gone on next door, and this did seem promising. A black man, very fit and active, by the look of him, had entered his bedroom. What was he going to be up to then? A strip show here would be very welcome, I thought, rubbing myself through my dressing gown.

Ah yes, one of the joys of having a fertile imagination like mine is that even when little is happening you can invent, create stories, compose dramas, design and fashion histories. Anything at all can happen, simply because you will it.

The light had gone out on my eighth storey story. A pity. It promised much and delivered only a brief, if delightful flash of breast. So I transferred my attention to the other rooms. My fat exhibitionist was lying naked on his bed, reading; his hand was floating about, running up and down his leg, and gradually working round to his front. I knew what was going to happen next and, sure enough, he rested his hand on his cock and started fondling it, stroking it into life. From my vantage point I could see it erecting and, to be fair to him, it was more impressive erect than it had been flaccid, about a normal six inches or so in length. It was a magazine he was reading, and I presumed it was a sex magazine as he began to slowly and lazily wank himself while perusing it.

My hand was on my own lap, and I slid it between the folds of my dressing gown, feeling my hot thigh, still silky smooth from the shower. As I watched him wanking on his bed my fingers strayed towards my pussy, grazing through the trimmed bush and seeking out my moist slit. I ran my index finger up and down it a few times, lightly, with no pressure. The action started to arouse me and I could myself getting damper; my finger began to slip further and further inside my crack without any need to exert pressure, until finally it was embedded within me, stroking and probing, flashing against my inner lips and folds.

My man continued to wank himself up, and I could tell he was now speeding up. After three or four minutes I could see the tell-tale signs that he was approaching his climax. He stopped reading his magazine and lay flat on the bed; his hand action was rapid, whizzing up and down his prick, his legs cocked and rigid. He raised his left hand in the air and started to convulse on the bed, and I knew he was coming. For a few seconds I watched him climax, spraying his seed all over his stomach, and then he lay still, hand still gripped round his cock. Well, he had obviously enjoyed himself and, as he cleaned himself up, wiping up a large area of his upper chest, suggesting a reasonably forceful expulsion, I had to confess he had given me some enjoyment too: I had continued to stroke myself the whole time I watched him, and some delicious ripples of excitement were making their presence felt in my abdomen.

Two floors up, the adjoining flats vied for my attention. The woman had returned, holding a sandwich which she proceeded to eat as she wandered round the room. Next door, the black man was also visible, but was flitting in and out of the room. I could see wisps of smoke edging around his bedroom door, and reckoned, since he seemed unconcerned, suggesting it wasn't fire, that he was running a bath. That showed potential. The woman had positioned herself on her settee, with her feet tucked underneath her, and was examining her nails. From this distance she looked very attractive, tall, slim and elegant, with long, dark hair.

A movement to the right alerted my attention to the return of the black guy. He wandered back in, fingers tugging at the buttons of his shirt, and I watched in rapt attention as he began to unbutton it and slipped it off. He was very broad shouldered and muscular, clearly a fit guy, clearly someone who worked out a lot. Wow, what pecs. And then, jackpot, as he turned his attention to his trousers and unselfconsciously started to unbutton and unzip them. I stopped breathing, my fingers embedded in my pussy, stroking and toying it, thumb rested gently on my clitoris. He bent and pulled the trousers off, taking his socks with them in one flowing movement. Without fuss, he hooked his fingers in his underpants and peeled them off. And stood naked before me. I had a side-on view, which suggested a very well hung individual. He turned to gather up his dressing gown from the bed, and I was rewarded with a full frontal view of this amazing specimen. He was gorgeous, truly gorgeous, a wonderful, tight, muscular figure, beautifully dark-skinned and with a superb, inviting looking prick. My pussy was soaked, and my first and third fingers licked up and down my outer lips, while my second finger rolled lasciviously around my aroused and hardened clitoris. I would never last out the evening, at this rate.

My hunk disappeared for his bath and I concentrated instead on the woman next door. Frustratingly, she too disappeared, and I found myself, after my recent excitement, in something of a hiatus. I sat back in my chair and lifted my feet on to the window sill, spreading my legs apart. My dressing gown fell away, so now I was exposing myself fully; not that anyone could see, since I had the lights off, but my public exposure added a frisson of excitement. For a couple of minutes I stroked away at my pussy, while with my other hand teasing my nipples, stroking, tweaking, cajoling. I was getting more and more turned on.

The situation was making very randy and daring. I didn't want to put the lights on, because that would affect my ability to see out, but I didn't want to stay in complete darkness, where nobody could see me. The answer was obvious, and I got up to go to the bathroom. I had a quick pee, and as I returned to my chair I left the bathroom light on. I was now lit from behind, and while I could still see out easily, I too was clearly visible to anyone looking in.

I resumed my position, this time with dressing gown wrapped around me, and continued where I had left off. Mr Flab was too far below me to be able to see my flat, so he was going to miss out. I wondered, though, how many pairs of hidden eyes were watching me, taking in my performance as I had taken in his. The thrill of it spurred me on, and I deliberately slid my gown apart again, letting it fall away from me, revealing my naked body. My knee and inner thigh shimmered in the reflected light of the bathroom, drawing my eye downward to my throbbing pussy. I watched my fingers as they expertly played with my labia, grazing up and down them, tickling, stroking, exciting them. Anyone could see. But who was?

Down below, the woman had returned, and she had clearly had a shower. She was dressed in a tee-shirt and simple skirt, with a towel around her hair, and she sat in front of a mirror and began to blow dry it. Next door, my man had finished his ablutions, too, and was sporting, unfortunately, a large, blue towel round his waist. Even so, the unmistakable bulge was enough to tempt me.

I tried to scan the other apartments, looking for signs of someone watching me. Was that a flicker of a curtain? A shadow moving? Yes and no, probably. Somewhere, somewhere. Somewhere, without question, someone was overlooking, observing my show, appreciating my performance. Where, and who?

The woman finished her hair, quickly applied some make-up, stared in the mirror to satisfy herself and got up to go. Off to meet some lucky guy, presumably. She left the room and the light clicked off. Another one gone. That left Mr Universe next door. He was still in his bedroom, still wearing only his towel, and didn't appear to be doing anything much. Then, suddenly, he disappeared, and I resigned myself to falling back on fantasies again.

But not for long. A moment later he returned, and he was not alone. With a start, I realised who it was: the woman from next door. Well! They embraced passionately, the woman hooking her arm around his neck and dragging him towards her. With her left hand she stroked his towel seductively, and then dragged it off and let it crumple to the floor. Placing her hands on his chest, she ran her fingers down to his stomach, lowering herself to her knees as she did so. Kneeling before him, she kissed his prick, licking its head and rolling her tongue down its length. He started to get erect, his huge cock filling with blood and rising impressively to attention. Stretching his head and staring at the ceiling, he stepped back and stretched out on the bed, resting on his forearms.

The woman slid her tee-shirt over her head, revealing bare breasts, good sized and firm. She slipped the skirt down, again revealing that she had no underwear. She was beautiful, so slim, such a firm, pretty body. Bending forward, she crawled on top of him, kissing her way up his thighs, stomach and chest to his face, where she energetically locked on to his mouth and they began a long, passionate kiss. She was astride him, but his cock was still lying on his stomach and she began to stroke it tenderly.

With massive hands he reached out and cupped her breasts, rolling them in his palm. In my room, I mimicked his action, pressing hard against my nipples, dragging my nails across my areolae, squeezing my aching nipples. She bent forward and took hold of his cock. Holding it erect, she placed it in position and very, very slowly began to lower herself onto it. She threw back her head, and I'm sure she must have screamed. While he lay beneath her, she began to fuck him, gyrating rhythmically on top of him, sliding about, slipping from side to side, raising and lowering herself on his magnificent cock. All the while he continued to play with her breasts, squeezing and kneading.

I was on the edge of my seat and close to my climax. As I watched the young lovers beneath me my fingers continued their merry dance around my pussy. I eased my left hand downwards and started to stroke gently around my anus, the sweet, rippling sensations adding wonderfully to the waves of passion crashing around my womb. I couldn't last any longer, and I didn't want to. My anonymous lovers below had propelled me to the edge, and as I watched their frenzied, passionate lovemaking I threw myself headfirst into my climax, feeling the giddy, heady, tortured sensations overwhelm my body. They overtook my womb, my belly, my thighs, fizzed down my legs to my toes and back again, careered across my chest and down my arms, connecting with every finger tip then returning whence they came, flipping up my neck and onto my face, where they took hold of every corner, every ounce of me, turned me inside out and round about and left me limp and motionless. Wave after wave went through me, second upon second, a lifetime in an instant.

Below, my lovers, too, were approaching their zenith. She was bucking and writhing on him, her mouth open in a silent scream and her body tense and glowing. I could tell the very moment when he came inside her, tell by her reaction and his, tell by the instant blending and merging of two bodies into one organic mass of pleasure. A beautiful moment.

And there was no doubt about it. No way was I going to be checking out of this hotel the next day...