Room with a view, and what a view! I have lived in this village all my life. I am regarded by many as a fine, upstanding pillar of society, a paragon of virtue in the local Brethren Church, and a respected local councillor. The fact that I am a lecherous, voyeuristic pervert is a secret I keep well hidden.

My frigid, unadventurous wife left me years ago after I suggested she might actually participate in the sexual act, instead of lying there like a zombie staring at the cracks in the ceiling and planning what to have for breakfast.

I am known as Mr. Bell; no one calls me by my Christian name. I’m happy to keep it that way. How long have I been a randy thrill seeker? I honestly couldn’t say. It probably started in early childhood, when I spied on my elder sister and her boyfriend.

Like me, or who I pretend to be, my parents were very prim and proper. One evening, they were attending a seminar at the church. My 16 year-old twin sister was babysitting with the son of the pastor. They were all very respectable. They were working on a Bible study.

I was in my room pretending to read a serious piece of writing. I can’t recall what it was.

The giggling alerted me. It was not a sound that was often heard in our house. I sneaked downstairs, the living room door was open. I couldn't believe my inexperienced eyes. They were kissing! The giggling had stopped, to be replaced by what sounded like animal noises. I was fascinated. Then I saw him slowly unbuttoning her school shirt and she was letting him do it. He pulled it off to reveal a white bra. He started to pull the straps down, then the cups. Out popped her teenage tits. I'd never seen tits before. They were amazing. Not very big, with pink tips. She was giggling again. No! He was touching them and twirling the tips between his fingers. I swear they got bigger. It wasn't the only thing that got bigger. My adolescent penis was straining against my pyjamas and pulsing furiously.

The kissing started again, noisily. He had one hand rubbing her tits. What was the other hand doing? Oooh, he was slowly putting it up her skirt. Surely she would stop him now? No. He kept going. Now I could see her pants. This was sinful and shocking. I was loving it. I was praying he would not stop. Somehow, he managed to push her back onto the cushions of the sofa. Her legs were open and her tartan school skirt was bunched up around her waist. The grunting animal noises started again. My eyes never as much as blinked. Amazingly, she was letting him do this.

He took his hand off her tits. Now both hands were up her legs, and he was touching her pants. Wait a minute, he wasn't; he was pulling her pants down. I heard a ripping noise. In his haste, he had torn them. The giggling and grunting got louder. He was touching her front bottom. Why was it hairy? Is that what all girls are like? I know I liked it. I was not sure what he was doing, but it looked like he was poking his fingers inside her. She had stopped giggling and was squirming around, making noises too.

The grandfather clock in the hall started to chime out ten o’clock. I don't recall who jumped the most. Them or me. I knew my parents were due home soon. I wasn't hanging around. I raced back up the stairs to my room. My first erection had vanished. My thirst for school uniforms had begun. Dusty Springfield singing “Son of a Preacher Man,” always to this day, brings a stirring to my groin.

They were never caught, and neither was I. That was many years ago. My parents and sister moved away from the village. My wife and I bought the family home, where I now live in splendid isolation and hypocrisy. My needs are all met, often without leaving my bedroom. A family moved in next door. My prayers were answered. Two teenage girls moved in, one still wore a school uniform. The same one as my sister all those years ago, the tartan skirt, however, was distinctly shorter. More of a pelmet. I watched that short skirt every morning in the hope that I might get a flash of her knickers. Nothing for months. The older sister was a different matter. Both girls’ bedroom windows faced mine. I still recall the first time the light appeared in her window and the curtains remained open. I held my breath. Would I get lucky? My lights were off. She would think no one was home.

She started to undress, pulling the sweater over her head to reveal a black bra. My hands were down my trousers, stroking my erect penis. I grunted with pleasure and anticipation. Her trousers came off next. She was wearing black again. It was a thong. When she turned round, I had a wonderful view of her practically bare behind. She was what I would describe as buxom; there was plenty to see. Faster and faster went my hands round my penis, which was now wet. Finally, I hit the jackpot and the bra and thong came off. Big, big bouncing tits. The nipples and areoles were dark and sexy. Even sexier was the full dark bush guarding what was sure to be a magnificent vagina. She stood for a few minutes brushing her hair before getting into bed and switching the lamp off. She slept nude.

My penis erupted. What a show!

In between my nightly show, I got some gratification from looking at the female lingerie on the washing line. I particularly liked seeing the black bra and thong. The school holidays are here, so I am no longer getting my uniform fix. However, the younger sister has now started to leave her curtains open at night too. Is she aware I watch? I doubt it. I am clever and sneaky. I watched her and her friend a few nights ago. It was better than the ridiculous, fake posed porn that I have to resort to.

They stripped naked. I saw everything, then they danced. Their tits were bouncing, their bodies gyrating, hips snaking. When they bent over, my stiff throbbing penis spilt all over my hands.

What I saw next, went to the next level. They had a black dildo which they were using in an exploratory fashion, gaining confidence. Their ripe pussies glistening as the black cock slid in and out feverishly. I swear I heard them moaning. Then I realised the guttural sounds were coming from me.

Yesterday, however, was the best day ever. An associate, never a friend, from the church called me. He asked me to call to see him at his Garden Centre. We accidentally discovered a few years ago that neither of us was who we appeared to be. I was intrigued. He would tell me nothing except to say we were going to one of the greenhouses. Miriam, a good girl from the church, was working there.

On entering, he locked the door behind us.

Was I hallucinating? There, watering some plants, was Miriam. She was naked. She smiled shyly. For a slim girl, she had huge, beautiful breasts just begging to be played with. A full pubic bush hid her treasures. The afternoon that followed was hot, horny and sexy beyond my wildest dreams. We acted out the role of advisors and admonishers. Fondling, groping, fingering and my favourite, spanking, all ensued. The steamy atmosphere and the smell of lust and hormones were intoxicating beyond measure. I even played with her using a dildo. Sadly, she never invited full intercourse. How I got home, I'm unsure.

My hands once again were playing with my wet, stiff shaft. I relived every minute. Life is good. The shrill ringing of the doorbell shattered my euphoria. I hastily fastened my trousers and opened the door.

“May I come in?”

It was the teenage tease from next door, dressed to thrill in her tiny school uniform!

Note: a full description of the antics in the Garden Centre can be read in Part 2, No Longer Good Girls.