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Cockermouth Drive is an unremarkable street, situated in a leafy suburb of middle England. Although no longer the home of impeccably stripped garden lawns, tea mornings with the parish council and staunch English values, the street has remained a quiet, consistent hamlet where nothing unusual went on, or at least nothing that wasn’t brought to every resident’s attention. Mr. Prendergast was very proud of this. He’d lived in the same house, on the same street, for the majority of his life and other than the odd British beach holiday, he never ventured far. His home was Cockermouth Drive and he kept care of it and its residents, day in and day out.

On this particular day he was sat at his worn writing bureau, cup of tea steaming, diary turned to that day’s page ready to make his mid-morning report. He took the upkeep and protection of his street very seriously. If a new car was parked on the street, the registration was noted down. If a dustbin was not taken in at the end of the collection day, notes were delivered. If a child broke a window with a stray football, a mark was made against their name. Nothing happened without Mr. Prendergast seeing. This caused some annoyance and suspicion amongst the residents of Cockermouth Drive but on the whole it was accepted. After all, like the royal guards standing sentry at the palace, Mr. Prendergast had been keeping guard of the street for as long as anyone could remember.

Positioned at his post, a meter back from the first floor bedroom window, he had a commanding view Bayrampaşa Escort of Cockermouth Drive taking in all of the house fronts. Scanning the street he started his report; 11.00am, street activity, nothing to report. Vehicle activity, all accounted for, no suspect vehicles. Resident activity, all employed residents exited the street between 7.30am and 8.45am. Remaining residents total: 13.

Finishing his written notes he picks up his binoculars and starts phase two of his report, household security. Number one Cockermouth Drive came in to focus as he leveled his view on the front door, then the font window and lastly the first floor bedroom. Room to room he moved his vision, observing the daily lives of others.

Scanning across number seven’s facade a slight movement alerts Mr. Prendergast’s attention. Through his binoculars the picture blurs as he tried to focus on the bedroom window. The scene is obscured slightly by the branches of a cherry blossom tree growing nearby but a figure is just visible reclining on a bed. Taking his notebook he opened it to the relevant page and instinctly picked up his pencil. Miss Abigail Smith, commonly referred to as Abi, aged 19, student (unemployed). ‘Miss Smith must be having a day off from her hard studies,’ thought Mr. Prendergast as her long blonde hair and pretty young face came in to focus. Noting this down in his log he moved his attention on to the next house.

Minutes pass without event until the muffled sound of a door Bayrampaşa Escort shutting pricked his ears. Taking the binoculars away from his face, he franticly looked the street up and down as his vision gradually re-adjusts. All quite again, the street was as still as a painting. Confused, Mr. Prendergast steps back and took in the vista, looking for movement, then suddenly he finds what he is looking for. Moving back to his binoculars he levels on number seven’s bedroom window again. Zooming in and out, he struggles to focus on the room but gradually Miss Abi Smith comes in to view. She’s kneeling on her bed, her long baggy shirt draped over her like a pale blue sack. From her posture she is talking to someone but who? Mr. Prendergast turns to her page and reads, ‘Many suitors but no permanent relationship.’ Looking back Abi is smiling and saying something to her mystery guess. Steadying his view he observes Abi lift her hands to the top of her neck and start to slowly unbutton the shirt, letting it gape open. A gust of wind blows across the street, rattling a stray drinks can across the pavement and swaying the cherry tree branches across his line of sight. When his view is restored her shirt is hanging off her shoulders revealing her petite breasts, back arching, her pert nipple point to the ceiling. Letting the shirt drop from her body she kneels on her bed, blonde hair trailing down her back, expectantly waiting. An unheard command comes and Abi repositions herself, laying back on Bayrampaşa her bed she shuffles about to get comfortable making her small breasts jiggle and bounce as she does. Her forward knee rises, hiding her pussy from view but revealing herself fully to her guess.

As the cherry blossom sways in front of him, Mr. Prendergast sees a figure appear in view, to distorted to recognise. Moving between her parted legs a hand wraps around Abi’s thigh while a mop of dark hair pushes deep in to her groin and slowly starts to bob up and down. The binoculars move up her body and take in her arching back, hands balled up, gripping the bed sheet and a look of ecstatic pleasure rests on her face. Abi’s hand slowly lets go of the bed and she gently caresses her stomach, moving up her torso and traces a single finger over her right breast. Stopping at the pinnacle of her nipple she rolls it between her fingers before grabbing both her breasts and roughly massages them in time to the franticly bobbing head. The silent carnal display ebbs and flows until Abi’s hands grab at her partners hair, tugging as she throws her head back and pushes her breasts skywards, her mouth open in rapture. The orgasmic crescendo takes hold of her completely, rippling through her, until the waves of passion start fade and her grip loosens on her partner. Sitting up from between her limp legs, the pale figure fades in to view and Mr. Prendergast gave a surprised cough.

Emerging from behind his binoculars, he wiped the steamed-up lenses, took a sip of his now cold cup of tea and fiddled with the pages of his notebook. Finding the page he was looking for he starts to read, ‘Mrs. Sophie Lovejoy, 33, wife of Adam Lovejoy, mother of Thomas Lovejoy. Number two Cockermouth Drive.’

‘This morning’s report,’ he thought, ‘is becoming very intriguing indeed.’

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