"Goodness Gracious!" exploded my father, spitting crumbs of his toast and home made three fruits marmalade over the newspaper and the linen tablecloth.

"Calm down Colonel," murmured mother, using her long held term for her sixty seven year old husband.

"What is the problem father?" I asked, as he continued to puff and grumble whilst reading a section of The Sunday Times. "You're making such a fuss."

"You remember those dreadful people making such a fuss about the house and that plot at the edge of the village?" he fumed. "You know the one, where our chaps finally shot them down."

Mother and I nodded absently, absorbed in our own supplements of the broadsheet on a delightfully sunny, early March morning in rural Warwickshire. She had the Style section and I had the Driving part, but was reading up on the gadgetry more than the cars, boning up on a new, powerful, mini cam corder for sports and any other use for capturing activity of any sort. It was extremely good value. Father continued.

"They're trying to sell it again at one six five, million that is. They'll never get it," he chortled, drinking some tea with a rude slurp and wiping his moustache with the back of his hand.

"Ah you mean Debden Hollow, the Taylors," said mother. "New money," she dismissed our neighbours with an imperious wave of her hand. "What do you expect?"

Father read on, partly to himself and often loudly to anyone that would listen as is his infuriating way, but we're used to it. I was more interested in how long it would be before Aunt Marjorie and Jasmine her fifteen year old daughter would appear for breakfast. They had arrived the day before, direct from Birmingham International airport having flown in from Delhi. I had been out all day with other members of the rowing club, spring cleaning the boat and club house a half mile up the river Avon; the same river our expansive eight acre gardens rolled down to. They were only staying one night, before going up to London to meet Uncle Sachin and accompany him to Buckingham Palace to receive his CBE.

My aunt was my father's sister, both of them being born in India to a British military family. She had married my uncle and they had one girl child Jasmine, who I had met once when she was about ten, finding the mixed race girl pretty but terribly snooty. Their first born was Gerald and some sort of a financial whizz in Hong Kong.

Jasmine preceded her mother by about five minutes and as she helped herself at the buffet table, I flexed my cock at the pleasures that would unfold later in the day. She was a light swarthy colour, with thick, glossy, pitch black hair cascading down to her bare shoulders. I detected that some of its outer strands looked wet and I tensed my cock again in anticipation. Now very pretty and of slender build, her tits were no more than little bumps, but unfettered bumps as there was no signs of brassiere straps on her bare, coffee coloured shoulders and through the wide loose arm holes of her Marks and Spencer dress when she sat next to me. The dress just reached her knees when standing so I had some rather nice glimpses of her bare lower thighs.

The conversation was a little stilted, as father just about acknowledged her, until the bustling entrance of Aunt Marjorie signalled an end to quiet relaxation. A large redoubtable lady of some fifty eight years, she had retained her English peach colouring, with determined efforts to stay out of the blistering Indian sunshine. The peach was somewhat wrinkled now but she seemed well preserved, although I noticed she had not passed on the genes relevant to breast development to her only daughter.

Auntie's hair was a solid coiffured block of thick, blue silver, which topped a face of quite delicate proportions, although somewhat marred by a splash of violent red on her lips. Her huge ethnic earrings matched the necklace which swooped over a very large bosom which looked to be hoisted within a stout corset, which looked like it continued over her hips to her thighs under her tight fitting, below the knee dark blue dress, which to me seemed more suitable for cocktail hour rather than breakfast. I did notice with great interest that she was wearing tights or maybe stockings and with, to the modern male, an extraordinary feature of a seam down the back.

I didn't want to make my exit too obviously timed with their arrival and settled in to now flowing chat, mother telling Aunty about father's disgust about our neighbours. The conversation rolled on about the state of the economy, cricket test matches and England's reasonably successful tour, mother and Aunt Marjorie both experts in our national game, the important bi-election in Hampshire and the Duchess of Cambridge's pregnancy and press intrusion were also featured.

That reminded me of my quest, so I excused myself and made my way upstairs, to the room mother had allocated to the family guests. I knew the large bedroom and en-suite bathroom like the back of my hand and within seconds I had retrieved the three tiny covert cameras strategically placed to capture activity, using sound activation around both beds and the bathroom. My fingers were trembling with excitement as I had heard the shower making its customary grumble for water pressure on our ancient Grade 11 listed plumbing.

In my spacious room, I connected one of the tiny black recorders to my computer and fired up MPEG Streamclip which I use for editing videos. This was the bathroom camera. It was superb.

The first capture, after the one where mother entered and bustled about making sure everything was in place, was Jasmine in tee-shirt and jeans, dropping them and her white panties and perching almost daintily to have a piss. I banged up the sound and heard a quite furious splashing sluice in the bowl beneath her butt.

Delicately, through her legs from the front, she wiped through her groin with three sets of paper, each involving about twelve sheets, if my mother could know she would be dyspeptic with rage, then left her jeans on the floor, stepping out of them while she swiftly pulled up her underwear.

I saw a smudge of black pubic hair before it disappeared, then she turned, rummaged through her overnight bag and cleaned her teeth as I gazed at her lovely buttocks quivering beneath the white cotton. There were some cursory wipes at her face, presumably removing makeup, some words and then she left as my Aunt appeared in a dark green silk dressing gown, telling Jasmine to try and open the sash window in the bedroom. She grimaced with disapproval but merely kicked her daughter's jeans to one side, before unfastening the robe which slid away to reveal a full length, pale pink night dress.

This was hitched up, as she muttered about the toilet seat being clean, and held in a bundle round her waist masking her crotch as I surveyed her thick thighs, getting a part rear view as she turned and peered in the bowl. Aunty sat, ah! knickers are off already I thought and I heard a steady slow tinkle that went on for more than a minute. It started and stopped several times, accompanied by one loud booming fart until she rolled one side of her butt upwards and made two cursory wipes under her thigh, before rising, the dress and robe masking any views to excite me.

The mature body excites me as much as the opposite end of the age range and many of my mother's friends have been captured on my covert videos when staying over or using that toilet, if we had a house full and that room was nearest at the top of the stairs.

Viewing the rest of the thirty minute segments on the camera was interrupted by my mobile phone and the text requested some important news about the village green from my father, who was Chairman of the Parish Council, president of the cricket club and indeed the rowing club. He refused to own a mobile phone and both parents often ignored any phones ringing if I was in the house, thinking and knowing most of them would be for me. Therefore to contact my father, people contacted me.

Reluctantly I ceased my voyeur viewing, knowing I had plenty of time to recommence and proceeded downstairs. The family were spread round the lounge with newspapers except for Jasmine who was tuned by earphones to some tinny sounding music while studiously peering at a laptop. I studiously tried to peer under her dress where her legs were bent up, but she had her dress tucked in neatly. I discussed the text request with my father and we went to his study to make some notes. He would call them back. He always did that. On our return to the lounge, I noticed the section of the Sunday Times he had been commenting on and picked it up to browse.

I had a smattering of interest in that Mrs Taylor, aged fifty two I read and known as Libby to her friends apparently, had not treated very well, two of my colleagues in the rowing club and indeed the club itself when she was bank manager in Warwick. I could recall that she was a plain looking, slim lady who was known in the village as someone very private, just as her husband Jim aged seventy three was. There was a small picture of them in the feature. The furore over the covenant placed by the Smith-Ryland family estate which once owned the land had created sides, not withstanding that my father had been an executive of English Heritage, who finally blocked the Taylors demolition of the at the time futuristic dwelling.

Virtually no one in the village had seen the interior and only a few the exterior, but it had some interesting features, based on designs of Frank Lloyd Wright. One of these was the paragraph about the floor to ceiling glazing and the lack of need of curtains and blinds, such was its location on the over four acres of land leading down to the river. The same river that formed the boundary to our old manor house. Hmmmm!

Between us and the Taylors there were four properties and any excuse to peep on a female was always investigated by yours truly and the idea I could get something intimate on the stuck up her own arse Libby was germinating nicely. A gamble had to be made as to when to go peeping, but it had to be at night, the house was visible from the river and its inherent traffic, not least members of the rowing club. I was delegated with driving Aunt Marjorie and Jasmine to the station later in the day and I also had training in single sculls to get through at the club, so reluctantly I had to forego further viewing of my secret videos of the previous night and this morning.

During training I passed our house and the Taylor plot and eased up on my strokes to have a quick study of the gardens between us. Two of them were huge rambling plots with virtually no fences and the last one between us and the Campbells next door had a broken wire barrier, which I knew could be bent. Easy I surmised - and being fit, fleet of foot and only twenty one the gardens would present no problem, especially when I knew none of the in-betweeners owned dogs, But did the Taylors?

Jasmine and her mother were duly deposited at the station for their important trip to London, Aunty Marjorie wearing a light weight linen jacket over her blue dress and Jasmine in a denim jacket over hers. Their luggage was considerable however and I made sure I tipped a porter well rather than carry it on and off trolleys.

It seemed to be forever before enough darkness shrouded the theatre of my covert operation and about ten o'clock I donned some dark jeans and black hoody over two thick sweaters, it was damn cold and snuck out of the back door. Mother and father were already tucked up in bed with their TV programmes and I glanced up at their window, confirming the light on and the curtains only showing a bright crack. Mother would never countenance not having thick Damask curtains in her bedroom.

I was in the Taylors in minutes and moved cautiously under the trees as I neared the huge modern house ablaze with light. Amazed that they had no CCTV and alert lighting, I crept quietly to some bushes, which hid me from the glare of the artificial light within. To say I was stunned with my first exploratory peep is an understatement. I had no knowledge of which room I was outside, but it was a large spacious void and in a circle round a naked girl were a mix of men and women.