My Aunt Taught Me to Spy on the Lake Neighbors

Florencia would never forget that January in Aunt Lucía’s cabin. She was nineteen, with coppery hair falling below her shoulders and a fairly hazy idea of what desire was. She knew that boys her age were always thinking about one thing, but she had never really stopped to consider what happened inside her own head when she looked at them too long.

The cabin stood on the outskirts of a town on the lake, tucked between pines and two weekend chalets. Her aunt had left her alone that morning to do some shopping in the city. The plan was a late lunch, so Florencia stayed stretched out on the living-room sofa with the fan pointed at her face and a T-shirt far too thin for any unexpected visitors.

She heard the splash before she got up. A sharp sound, followed by male laughter. She walked barefoot to the back window and peered out through the curtains.

—The neighbors —she murmured.

The cabin next door was usually empty. Her aunt had explained that it belonged to a family from the capital who barely used it two weekends a year. But that morning, in the garden pool, there were three boys splashing around as if they owned the world. Florencia guessed they were her age, maybe a little older. And, she admitted, they had nice bodies. Firm shoulders, broad backs, skin tanned by several straight days in the sun.

She rested her elbow on the frame and bit her lip. She was feeling a heat that had nothing to do with summer.

And then it happened.

The three of them got out of the water at the same time, looked at one another with the air of little kids sharing a secret, and pulled down their swimsuits all at once. Florencia covered her mouth to stop herself from laughing. It was the first time she had ever seen a man naked for real, and the surprise was doubled: because there were three of them, and because none of them had anything that impressed her all that much.

One was blond, with curly hair plastered to the back of his neck by the water. The other two were dark-haired, almost twins in the way they stood, hands on their hips as if posing for a sports photo. They barely had any pubic hair. And between their legs, three small cocks swayed in the breeze like three short pendulums.

They’re boys. Three boys playing at being men.

—Mine’s the longest! —the blond shouted, grabbing his own with an open palm and pulling back the skin of the glans with the insolence of someone who wanted to be looked at.

—And mine’s the thickest! —one of the brunettes replied, lifting it proudly, showing off a cock that was still short, only half-hard, with the foreskin glistening from the water.

The third, the quietest one, didn’t even join the comparison. Florencia leaned a little farther out over the sill, unable to look away. There was no desire in what she felt, not yet. It was pure curiosity, a mixture of stifled laughter and a question growing in her chest.

Is that all they have?

She took out her phone almost without thinking. She snapped a photo, then another. She wasn’t going to show them to anyone. She just wanted to be able to look later, calmly, at that scene that would seem impossible to her as soon as she closed the curtain. The boys kept walking naked to the porch, unhurried, and went into the cabin without bothering to get dressed.

***

Aunt Lucía came back around noon with bags of bread and a cut watermelon. They ate on the porch, in the shade. Florencia waited until dessert to bring it up.

—Aunt… do you know who the boys next door are?

Lucía raised an amused eyebrow.

—Oh, them. The Three Musketeers. They’re from Mendoza, sons of some friends. They’re all twenty-one, but their heads are still fourteen. When they’re together, they look like a bad TV show.

—They bathed naked today —Florencia said, pretending to focus on the watermelon—. Like nobody could see them.

Lucía let out a short laugh.

—They always do that. They know I live alone and think I’m not looking. Once, two summers ago, they came to ask me for salt with their swimsuits deliberately pulled down. I gave them a good earful, and since then they behave a little better… but only a little.

—They’re… boys —Florencia said, uncertain about the word.

—They’re not boys, sweetheart. They’re immature. Which is different. They’re twenty-one and they’re still sizing each other up as if that decided anything. —She took a sip of water—. Tonight, when you hear them laughing, you’ll realize they’re drinking. And tomorrow they’ll be out there naked again, like nothing happened.

Florencia stayed quiet for a while, stirring the ice with her spoon.

—It’s the first time I’ve seen a man like that.

Her aunt looked at her over the rim of the glass, with a smile that took a second to appear.

—Those aren’t men yet. A man is something else. —She tilted her head toward the cabin on the other side—. A man is that over there.

***

The next morning, the two of them were in the same spot by the window. Her aunt with a mate in one hand and Florencia hugging her knees in a low chair. The three boys returned to the yard on time, this time already naked before they even got there, as if the pool were just an excuse.

—They love being watched —Lucía said softly, without stopping to sip—. A bunch of exhibitionists who don’t dare call themselves that.

Florencia tried not to laugh. It was hard. The three of them chased each other around the pool, slapping one another on the backs and in other places. Their cocks, still soft, bounced as they ran back and forth. It was as ridiculous a sight as it was hypnotic. Their wet skin gleamed, their balls knocked lightly against their thighs, and every so often one of them grabbed his cock to straighten it out, as if it were already a trophy that needed to be displayed better.

—Look —said her aunt suddenly, turning her head the other way.

Florencia followed her gaze. In the back garden of the other cabin, a man came out who looked nothing like the ones from the first chalet. Tall, shoulders like beams, back carved with long muscles, deeply tanned. He wasn’t wearing anything. He walked with the ease of someone who doesn’t need to hide what he has, and what he had was hard to ignore. His sex was long, heavy, hanging against his left thigh with a slow sway. The patch of pubic hair above it was dark, thick, perfectly trimmed. Just one of his testicles seemed to be the size of what the three musketeers could add up to between them.

Florencia swallowed hard without meaning to.

That… that really is something else.

—His name’s Joaquín —Lucía said, offering no more details—. He lives alone. He works out in the shed out back. He’s forty-two and just patient enough not to pick fights with the kids.

—You know him?

Lucía took a while to answer. She smiled, as if remembering something pleasant.

—I know him.

Meanwhile, the three from the first chalet kept darting around like freshly weaned puppies. One of the brunettes slipped on a wet tile, took two comic steps trying to regain his balance, and fell forward. He landed with his pelvis against the concrete edge of the pool.

The scream he let out was so high-pitched it could be heard inside the cabin.

Florencia clapped both hands over her mouth. Her aunt burst into a long, open laugh, no attempt at hiding it. The other two friends, in an identical reflex, covered their crotches with their palms and froze.

—That’s it —Lucía said, wiping away a tear—. That fall made my whole morning.

The boy managed to get back up, bent in half, face red, hands protecting what was left. The others helped him into the living room, still without getting dressed, in a clumsy procession that left both women crying with laughter.

***

Night was another story.

Florencia went to bed early, but she couldn’t fall asleep. Her body felt different, a kind of new restlessness settled in her stomach. She tossed and turned, listened to the crickets, tried not to think about what she had seen. But the images kept coming back, one after another: the three swinging cocks from the first chalet, Joaquín’s shoulders, the way her aunt had smiled when she said his name.

At eleven-thirty, she heard the garden gate close.

She got up barefoot, without turning on the light, and walked to the living-room window. Her aunt wasn’t in the room. Florencia moved the curtain just a little and looked toward the other chalet.

Lucía was walking along the stone path in a thin dress, carrying nothing. Joaquín’s back gate opened before she even touched it. Florencia kept watching that scene without moving.

Ten minutes later, a dim light came on in Joaquín’s living-room window. The curtains were thin. Too thin.

Florencia approached the glass, not sure whether she had permission to look at what she was about to look at. But she looked anyway.

Her aunt was braced against the back of an armchair, with her back to the window, her dress hiked up to her waist. Joaquín was holding her by the hips with both hands, unhurried, setting a slow rhythm that could be felt even from outside by the way Lucía’s body moved forward and back. At one point, he took her hair gently, almost respectfully, and tugged her head back just a little. Lucía opened her mouth, stuck out her tongue, and leaned over the back again.

Florencia was left breathless.

My aunt. My aunt doing that.

She pressed her forehead to the glass and forced herself to breathe. And then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught another movement.

She lowered her gaze to the wooden fence that separated Joaquín’s cabin from the first chalet. Three silhouettes, pressed against the slats, peering through the gaps. The Three Musketeers, this time wearing shorts, but with their hands buried inside. They moved in time with what was happening on the other side.

Florencia bit her lip.

There was something almost comic about the scene: the immature boys spying on the adult man who had her aunt undone with pleasure. Something comic and, at the same time, deeply arousing. Because now she understood that she was doing the same thing they were. She was on the other side of a window, watching in secret, with her heart racing and her pulse pounding in places where it had never beaten before.

She felt the heat climbing up her legs. A new wetness, not summer sweat.

Slowly, without taking her eyes off Joaquín’s window, she slid her hand under her nightgown. She found the exact spot without having to look for it. And with two clumsy, curious fingers, she began to do the same thing the boys on the other side of the fence were doing. At first it was an uncertain rub, just a caress over the damp fold, but almost immediately it became more insistent, hungrier. She parted herself a little, feeling her own vulva with the tips of her fingers, sensing the warm wetness that was already soaking her. She took a deep breath and plunged her fingers in more decisively, rubbing her clit in small circles while she kept watching without blinking.

Her aunt was moaning silently inside the other cabin. Joaquín kept setting the rhythm. One of the boys had pressed himself so close to the wood that the head of his cock could be seen peeking between his fingers, shaken by the movement of his hand. The other two were masturbating too, shoulders tight, hips thrusting forward as if they wanted to break through the fence. And Florencia, alone in the dark living room, discovered that night that watching could also be a way of touching.

Then Lucía’s moan became longer, broken, and Joaquín leaned over her with more force. His big body wrapped around her, made her arch, shook her shoulders with every thrust. Florencia felt a shiver in her belly and slid her hand even lower, pushing two fingers between her wet lips, feeling the slippery entrance of her own body. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing, but instinct was stronger than shame. She rubbed herself, parted herself, pushed in just a little, gasping as she discovered that everything inside was throbbing. And pleasure, crude and electric, began to rise through her from her pubis to her chest.

The three boys on the other side of the fence could no longer hide it: one went rigid, back arched, and gave a short burst against his palm; another clenched his teeth and came in silence, semen sliding over his knuckles; the third doubled over, trembling, while a white stain splattered his stomach. Florencia watched them finish one by one and her pulse jumped, as if their ending ordered her own. She touched herself faster, deeper, rubbing her clit insistently and sliding her fingers in a little more each time, until she felt her body tighten, her breathing grow short, everything inside clench around that precise friction.

Her aunt was still riding the back of the armchair, legs open and skirt hiked up, while Joaquín held her waist and fucked her with firm, raw movements, never losing control. Each thrust made Lucía’s body bounce against the sofa, and every time he filled her to the hilt she let out a broken, wet sound, a woman shaken from the inside. Florencia felt that image undo her: the big man, the surrendered woman, the boys watching and touching themselves like desperate fools, and herself with her fingers lost between her own folds, driven by a new, dirty, delicious urgency.

When it was over, with her forehead still pressed to the glass and her breathing ragged, she didn’t feel guilty. She felt awake, for the first time in her life. The last spasm ran through her belly like a hot jolt and she stayed still for a moment, her hand still between her legs, feeling the brutal pulse of her sex. It wasn’t delicate or clean. It was an animal relief, a little shudder that left her knees weak and her nightgown stuck to her skin with sweat.

She went back to bed without a sound. Her aunt didn’t return until two-thirty. Florencia pretended to be asleep. And the next day, when they crossed paths in the kitchen at breakfast, neither of them said a word about the night before.

But Aunt Lucía smiled over her mate.

And Florencia, deep down, knew she was never going to be the same again.