Voyeurism: the practice of gaining sexual gratification from watching others when they are naked or engaged in sexual activity. That cod-psychiatric definition (lifted from an internet site) was good enough for me. My reclusive middle-aged neighbour, Madeline, I’d decided, was most certainly a voyeur.

I’d been fascinated by the Peeping Tom phenomenon ever since seeing Hitchcock’s ‘Rear Window’ back in the 1950s: a rather over-rated movie in which the wheelchair-bound James Stewart thinks he’s witnessed a murder being committed in the apartment building opposite. The French artist Fragonard’s painting The Swing is another example where sexual exhibitionism and voyeurism meet head-on. This 18th-century painting depicts a girl on a swing, lifting her legs high in the air to expose her petticoats to a young buck lying in the grass. I’ve always assumed she was wearing no knickers.

A European heatwave was raging, with temperatures climbing into the 30s and my wife Cynthia had taken our twelve-year-old twins off to Scotland to stay with their grandparents.

On my first weekend alone, I got heavily into some gardening tasks, but decided to call it a day at around 2 o’clock. Stretching out on the sun lounger on the patio, I slid off my denim shorts and lay playing with myself through my cotton briefs. I had soon stroked myself into a nice ‘semi’ and was contemplating its conclusion when my phone signalled an incoming text message. I guessed it was probably Cynthia to say that she and the girls had arrived safely. But the message read: Why don’t you have a lovely wank while I watch? M

Who was ‘M’ and where was he or she watching me from? Intrigued, I stroked on and concluded that my ‘secret watcher’ was probably my reclusive neighbour Madeline. I decided to give this poor old biddy ‘a show’. I pulled down the front of my briefs and a couple of minutes later, four lovely thick ropes of semen criss-crossed my chest. Then I nodded off to sleep in the sunshine.

Sadly, Cynthia had failed to leave me a well-stocked larder and by late afternoon I was getting peckish. I decided to see if my next-door neighbour could help me out.

“Err…sorry to trouble you,” I began with a rather unconvincing stutter, standing holding an empty bowl, like Oliver Twist, on my neighbour’s doorstep. “Would you, by any chance, have any dried pasta?”

Barefooted and stocking-less, rangy and unkempt, Madeline was wearing a loosely-fitting floral-print housecoat, which barely covered her breasts. She shook her head. “Hate anything Italian. Have done since World War Two. Good job they strung up Mussolini from a lamp post, that’s all I can say,” she barked. Never before had I heard such a virulent condemnation of cooking with pasta. I was about to beat a hasty retreat when she added: “I’ve got a home-made cottage pie you can have. But its tofu, not beef.”

“Thank you. That would be wonderful.” Supper sorted, I accepted my neighbour’s invitation to share a drink in her kitchen, ‘A drink’ turned out to be two half-pint goblets of a fiendishly strong Hungarian burgundy, with a kick like a mule. In no time at all, we’d seen off the bottle. She slumped back in her chair, casually splaying her legs open. She was wearing no panties, revealing a magnificent pubic forest surrounding her quim. She made no attempt to pull her garment closed when she saw me gazing at her ‘forest’.

“I gather from my wife that you were an art teacher.”

“That’s correct. I taught classical art history at Cheltenham Ladies' College. And what line of business are you in, Mark?”

“Computer graphics, although I originally studied fine art.”

“Favourite artist?”

“Caravaggio.”

“Now you’re talking!” Madeline brightened and gave a girlish giggle. “I remember once showing a slide of one of his altarpieces to a group of pubescent sixth formers. One of the cherubs at the Madonna’s shoulder has an amazingly-realistic willy, said to have been modelled on one of the artist’s studio assistants. It created a riot, I can tell you!” She got up to fetch another bottle of wine from the dresser.

As she leaned over to uncork it, her housecoat fell open, fully exposing her sagging breasts which swung forward. I couldn’t decide if this was an unfortunate accident, or if Madeline was ‘flashing’. Re-taking her seat at the table, she shrugged the gown from her shoulders so that I could admire her long dark brown tits. Though most men lust after small perfectly formed breasts with pert nipples, I’ve always preferred older women with long pendulous tits. “That’s better,” she said with some satisfaction, sipping her wine. “Anyway, that more or less makes us ‘all square,’ doesn’t it?”

“How d’you mean?”

She casually stroked a hand over a nipple and gave a wicked smile. “Well, I saw your cock this afternoon, didn’t I?” Her spare hand had now moved down between her legs, as she began (none too subtly) to gently frig herself. She gave a rueful smile. “I have to admit, Mark, that I loved watching you sunbathe in the nude this afternoon. Especially when you were lying on your back playing with yourself.”

“Really?”

”Oh yes. It really gets an old woman’s vaginal juices flowing!”

“Why, in particular?”

“Because I knew that the conclusion would be a lovely ejaculation, which I could secretly witness from my bedroom window.” She re-filled our glasses.

“And were you playing with yourself up there – like you are now under the table?”

She gave a little blush – though she didn’t stop finger-fucking herself. “Oooo yes! Seeing you cum all over your chest was simply bliss, my dear.” She took a big mouthful of wine, as if fortifying herself for further confessions.” I just wish I’d been… closer to the action, so to speak.”

“I’m sure that could be arranged.”

And so it was that a quarter of an hour later, naked and holding hands, we gingerly stepped into Madeline’s shower.

“Err… how do you want to play this?” I asked nervously.

She squeezed my hand. “I don’t mind, my dear, just so long as I get to see that lovely cock of yours explode at close quarters!”

“Well, you could always soap me down and then just give me a nice slow hand job. How does that sound?”

She thought for a moment. “Alternatively, if I was to kneel in front of you, instead of having to use soap as a lubricant, I could suck you off?”

“Mmmm, that sounds like a lovely idea.”

“Just one proviso, though.”

“And that is?”

“Pull out at the last moment and ‘glaze’ my tits, Mark. It’s been so long since a man splashed spunk over me!”